


claimed by bone of my bone again

by Agent25



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F, F/M, Family Feels, Future Fic, Happy Starks (ASoIaF), M/M, Robb Stark is King in the North, Stark Family Reunion(s) (ASoIaF), jon and robb are idiots in love, mixture of tv show and books
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2020-10-26 10:15:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 64,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20740583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agent25/pseuds/Agent25
Summary: That day at Castle Black begins as every day does. The sun remains hidden behind imposing clouds and the air is bitingly cold even with the arrival of spring. Sluggish recruits train in the yard as their practice swords clang against one another. Above them, the ancient wooden lift groans and creaks as it ascends and descends the towering Wall. It is business as usual for the men of the Night’s Watch, dismal as that business is.Then they see the Stark banners coming their way. Proud direwolves snapping in the breeze like fishes’ tails as they swim upstream against the raging currents.One hundred men in exchange for Jon Snow.





	1. it's been cold for years, won't you let it lie?

The day Stark banners are sighted at Castle Black begins as every day does. The sun remains hidden behind imposing clouds and the air is bitingly cold even with the arrival of spring. Sluggish recruits train in the yard as their practice swords clang against one another. Above them, the ancient wooden lift groans and creaks as it ascends and descends the towering Wall. It is business as usual for the men of the Night’s Watch, dismal as that business is.

Then they see the Stark banners coming their way. Proud direwolves snapping in the breeze like fishes’ tails as they swim upstream against the raging currents. They are a moving sea of pure white and steely grey, a beacon against the bleak surroundings of the Wall and Castle Black. The brothers in black can only stare as the flags grow closer and closer, descending on the fortification.

Jon Snow doesn’t see them.

He’s tucked away from the impending excitement, in the crumbling East South Tower. The tower, like much of Castle Black, has seen better days. Jon’s in the bowels of the structure, out of sight and out of mind as he is most days, tasked with the unglamorous and backbreaking work of bricklaying. It could be worse. He could be captain of the pit latrine, a foul deed he’s been saddled with more than once in his decade-long duty to the Night’s Watch.

At least with bricklaying, he gets to use his hands to build something out of nothing. Even if the labor breaks his skin and cracks his nails, leaving dirt under them that he cannot wash away no matter how hard he scrubs. Still, though, there’s an almost tranquil monotony to the task that lets his mind wander as he works. It lets him leave Castle Black behind, if only temporarily.

Some days he finds himself in the courtyard of Winterfell, under the watchful eye of Ser Rodrick as he spars alongside Robb and Theon. Other days, he’s far beyond the Wall and all he can see are flashes of Ygritte’s red hair and hear her voice in his ear as she playfully taunts him, getting under his skin in a way no one else ever could.

Bricklaying may not be an exciting occupation, but there are worse ways to spend one’s time. And the company isn’t so bad either. Jon spares a glance to the corner of the tower where Ghost is indulging himself in an afternoon nap, his massive head tucked onto his paws as he slumbers, his chest rising and falling with deep, steady breaths. The direwolf had been missing for the last week, hunting beyond the Wall. He had only appeared that very morning when a ranger had returned, loping in from the tunnel looking rather pleased with himself. From his full belly and the dried blood in his muzzle, it had been clear that the wolf had a fruitful expedition and had feasted like a king.

Jon grunts as he heaves a large brick, laying it down in the freshly slathered mortar that oozes out from beneath the weight of the stone. He steps back, wiping at his sweaty brow and is thankful that his unruly curls are pulled back as they nearly always are these days. A thin sheen of sweat covers him, keeping the cold at bay with his constant movements. He’s about ready to get back to work when he catches sight of Ghost. The direwolf had woken up, raising his head as if sensing something as a questioning gleam flashed through his blood-red eyes.

“What is it, boy?” Jon murmurs. No sooner has he spoken than the loud shrill of the horn rings throughout Castle Black, echoing on for miles in all directions.

Riders have been spotted.

Jon can’t imagine who it could be. Other than the ranger who had returned this morning, no other excursions had been sanctioned beyond the Wall. And Jon can’t think of anyone who would voluntarily travel to Castle Black from the south. It isn’t a brother with fresh recruits. The last one had returned three moons ago with a mismatched group of rapists, thieves, a religious fanatic, and even a kinslayer.

Jon cuts his wondering thoughts short with a scowl. He isn’t Lord Commander anymore. It’s no concern of his who comes and goes from Castle Black. He has his duties to tend to, minute and unimportant they may be. It would be wise to keep his head down and go about them without attracting unwanted attention to himself.

He tries to do just that and almost succeeds, except the noise outside grows rather distracting. He can hear a cacophony of voices exclaiming and shouting over something unseen. Even Ghost is alert, standing up on all four legs and tail wagging with interest.

Jon really shouldn’t…but what could it hurt? Duty could be set aside, if only for a moment.

“Alright,” he says aloud to the empty tower, “let’s go take a look.”

Ghost nips at his heels as he steps outside into the East Courtyard. He forgoes his cloak but can’t even feel the chill as he takes in the gloomy grey day. Men are gathering around in black swarms all staring ahead and murmuring excitedly to each other. It’s too many voices all speaking at once and Jon can’t make out a thing anyone is saying.

“Dominic!” he calls out to a passing recruit who’s all jittery with anticipation. The boy is pimply-faced and younger than Rickon. He had come to them from the Stormlands after having been caught pickpocketing a minor noble in a marketplace. The lad halts in place, turning his big, brown eyes on Jon.

“What’s going on?” Jon inquires. He’s never seen the men so riled up with amazement before.

“Men, as far as the eye can see!” the youth cries out with stars in his eyes. “All bearing the banner of House Stark. I hear the King in the North is with ‘em!” He takes off running to get closer to the action, leaving Jon standing there with his heart lodged in his throat and his feet rooted to the ground.

_Robb is here?_

Jon hasn’t seen his brother in years. He has believed that he’d never seen him again. Time and distance have split them further apart than Jon could ever believe possible, with Robb being crowned King and fighting a war to maintain Northern independence while Jon went through hell and back beyond the Wall, witnessing things no man had any right to see.

But now…Robb might be _here; _in touching distance. Jon could see him, could speak to him. Tell him all the things that have lain dormant in him since their fateful goodbye in the courtyard of Winterfell when they had been boys playing at being men. A simpler time before their world had irrevocably shifted beneath their feet.

With his heart hammering in his chest, Jon pushes through the crowd, slipping beneath the passage that will lead him to the West Courtyard where the epicenter of the commotion is occurring. Jon freezes at what he sees. Dominic had been right, there are men as far as the eye can see carrying the Stark standard as it flaps in the wind.

Men, horses, carts, all numerous and seemingly endless in supply. The courtyard is filled to the brim and Jon can hardly make head or tails of it as he takes it all in with wide eyes and a gaping mouth. He probably looks like a simpleton but he can’t find it in him to care as he stands on his toes and turns about, desperately seeking out his brother. But he can find no trace of the King in the North in the teeming thrall of men.

No crown of auburn curls. No eyes that are bluer and deeper than the Shivering Sea. No Grey Wind faithfully at his side.

House Stark has come to Castle Black, but its king is not among the visitors. Disappointment stabs into Jon’s side, that fleeting hope of seeing Robb shattering into ice at the reality that his brother is not here. Why would he be? What could he possibly want with the Night’s Watch? With Jon himself? He almost wants to disappear and find an empty corner to lick his wounds; feeling foolish at even believing for a moment that he would see his brother.

It’d take a miracle for Jon to see Robb, and Jon has stopped believing in miracles long ago.

“Well look what we have here!” a jovial voice booms from behind Jon, ripping him from his melancholy. “As I live and breathe, if it isn’t Jon Snow.”

Jon spins around, coming face to face with a burly man with kind eyes and a beaming smile hidden beneath a bushy beard. He’s Jon’s age, or close enough. It takes Jon a beat to recognize him and when he does he can’t keep the shock off his face.

“Daric? Daric Mollen?” Jon hoarsely questions, images of his childhood friend flashing through his mind, clashing with the vision of the man presently standing before him.

“Aye, it is,” Daric responds with a grin that has his eyes crinkling at the corners. “It’s the beard, isn’t it? You can’t recognize me with the beard.” He reaches up to rub the rough bristles sprouting from his chin. “The whores in Wintertown say it makes me look quite distinguished.” He puffs out his chest with pride at the statement, looking ridiculous.

Jon barks out a joyous laugh, such a rarity for him that it comes out sounding rusty and unused. “I imagine they’ll say anything to get a silver stag out of you.”

Daric ponders this before shrugging good-naturedly. “I reckon you’re right.”

Jon shakes his head, still unbelieving that a piece of his past is standing right there. Taking the piss out of each other with an old friend as the Stark direwolves billow in the breeze, it’s almost easy to pretend they’re back at Winterfell. It’s not Robb – nothing could ever be Robb – but it’s something. It’s something that warms a part of Jon that for too long has been cold and closed off.

That thawing in his veins is what propels him forward to warmly clasp arms with Daric. “It’s good to see you, old friend,” he gruffly says as he claps Daric on the back with his free hand.

“You too, Snow,” Daric replies in the thick, Northern brogue of Winterfell, of home. Home is all Jon can think about as he takes Daric in. There’s a well of emotions bubbling inside him and he ruthlessly tramples them down before he does something stupid, such as blubbering like a widow at a funeral.

He forces his eyes away from Daric’s face and takes in his clothing instead. He’s in the familiar dull blue gambeson and brown boiled leathers of a guard of Winterfell. He even has a bascinet helmet clutched under his arm.

“You’re a guard now?” Jon asks for the sake of asking, his interest thoroughly piqued. Daric’s in service to the Starks. There’s no one better to tell him of his family, of his brothers and sisters. He could tell him of Robb.

“Aye, I am. My brother Hallis – _you remember Hallis, don’t you?_ – he’s Captain of the Guard at Winterfell. Couldn’t help but follow in his footsteps.”

Jon nods, his eyes roving over the sight of so many men jammed into the courtyard. He has no idea what they’re doing here and why they look ready to stay.

“What brings you here? What business does House Stark have with the Watch?”

Daric’s lips quirk up. “Funny you should ask. I’m here for you—“

_“Snow!”_

Like a crack of the whip, the courtyard instantly goes silent as both Stark men and brothers of the Night’s Watch alike all turn their eyes on Jon, like a compass pointing true north. Jon himself tenses, his shoulders going rigid and his breath coming up short. Reluctantly, he turns around and forces his eyes up, taking in the ominous sight looming above him. Alliser Thorne – like an apparition of death in his black leather and furs – stands on the walkway with clenched fists and eyes hard as steel.

Altogether, it’s no different than how Thorne usually looks anytime he deigns to address Jon. For the most part, he pretends that Jon doesn’t even exist and on the rare occasion when the two are forced to interact, he makes sure Jon knows that he regards him no better than the mud under his boots.

Still, there’s something more to his usual austerity. There’s a wave of fierce anger in his eyes, coursing through them and directed right at Jon as if he might smite him right on the spot for everyone to see. Something’s upset him. More than likely that something involves the arrival of Stark men at Castle Black. And whatever’s brought them here, Jon’s willing to bet he’ll be the one paying for it.

“My chamber,” Thorne snaps brusquely. “Now.”

With a swish of his ebony cloak, he disappears from sight. The suffocating silence remains. As do the stares. His brothers are fearful and suspicious as they are whenever Jon surfaces – forcibly or not – from the obscurity he takes refuge in. The Stark men milling about seem curious; some hold flashes of recognition at seeing the ill-fortuned Bastard of Winterfell, brought just as low as he had ever been underneath Lady Stark’s hateful gaze.

With a weary sigh and not even a backward glance to Daric, Jon walks forward with the cheer of a man heading to the gallows. The men of the Night’s Watch instantly part ways like waves on the sea, creating a long and lonely path for him to walk. The bow their heads and lower their eyes deferentially as he marches past them. They make sure to keep clear of him as if he might curse them with his touch.

He knows what they whisper about him when they think he can’t hear. Only a few of the men know what happened that fateful night years ago when brothers turned against brothers. So many others have only heard half-truths and outright lies that have bled together until fiction became fact. And the recruits only know of a tale that’s now practically a legend, passed from one to the other, never sounding the same way twice.

Some think he’s some kind of god. Others think him no better than a vicious beast trapped in the confines of his skin. Jon Snow as a mortal man stopped existing long ago to the men of the Night’s Watch.

But he still remembers the post in the courtyard. The word crudely carved into wood, proclaiming loudly for the entire world to see.

_Traitor._

Jon Snow remembers. He will never forget. He doesn’t have the luxury of forgetting, not when he bears the very memory embedded in his skin. His feet thump up the steps and he pauses briefly outside the door of the 999th Lord Commander’s rooms. With a steadying breath, he forces himself to push open the door and steps inside.

The chambers haven’t changed. After everything that’s happened, they’re still dark and drafty with old furnishings that are musty. Jon spent much time here, both as the steward of Jeor Mormont and as Lord Commander himself. Once, they even felt like an adequate version of home. But that was a long time ago. Now they belong to Alliser Thorne and anything that reeks of that man will never offer a shred of comfort to Jon.

Thorne’s sitting at his desk, perched atop his chair with the pomposity of a king sitting on his throne. Leadership had always come naturally to Alliser Thorne and it gave him what he truly craved: power. And at a place as desolate as the Wall with only the outcasts of society as your comrades, power only came from being Lord Commander.

“Sit,” Thorne orders with a nod to the rickety, wooden chair across from him. Jon obeys, his dirty hands going to his knees as he sinks down. He looks across the desk, stares into the eyes of a man who’s despised him from his first steps into Castle Black. And still, as he gazes at the man who so loathes him, Jon can’t help but think of the questions he’s had churning in his head for years.

_Did you know what they had planned for me? Did you help them? _They’re like a disease that has sickened Jon time and time again, but he cannot let them go even if Thorne will deny him absolution. _Did you want me dead too? And if you did, why weren’t you one of the ones holding a knife? Don’t you know that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword? _But then again, Alliser Thorne had always prided himself on being a man who bet on the sure thing. Perhaps Jon’s death hadn’t been such a sure thing.

Lucky – and unluckily – for him. Death would have been easy. It’s living that proves troublesome.

Seeing nothing but contempt in Thorne’s pale eyes, Jon looks away as he sulkily leans back in his chair. He doesn’t want to be here and he has no qualms in letting Thorne know that. “What can I do for you, _Lord Commander_?”

Thorne scowls, lips puckering together as if having eaten one of those sour lemon cakes that Sansa had always loved as a young girl.

“While I’ve always questioned your intelligence, Lord Snow, I’m sure you’re not daft enough not to have noticed the battalion of soldiers that have now infiltrated Castle Black. All bearing the sigil of your family’s bloody House.”

Of course, Jon’s seen them. He’s still enamored by the sight of them. He has no idea what they’re doing here or what they want. But he won’t admit that to Thorne. Let the man stew, it means little to Jon. He’s had a temporary glimpse of home and he can survive off that oasis of a feeling for years to come in this barren wasteland.

“The Night’s Watch is always in need of men,” he remarks casually. That hasn’t changed under Thorne’s leadership. There are less than a thousand men who can call themselves brothers of the Watch. “I imagine Winterfell has heard our pleas for help and has sent men as any dutiful House of the North would.”

It’s more than any other House in any other Kingdom can claim. Jon’s proud of it. It’s as his father told him the last time they saw each other, _Starks have been manning the Wall for thousands of years. _Starks understood the importance of the Night’s Watch. A Stark had built the Wall. His uncle Benjen had been one of their finest rangers. And now Robb was providing aid as any benevolent king would.

“Aye, these men are here for the Watch,” Thorne snarls, making his displeasure known as he lashed out. “They’re here for _you_.”

Jon blinks stupidly, not comprehending the words that have been flung at him like a slap to the face.

“What?”

Thorne sweeps up a parchment that had lain unnoticed on his desk, tossing it Jon’s way. Jon unfolds it and even with the seal savagely broken he can still make out the shape of a snarling direwolf. It takes everything in him to keep his hands from shaking as he greedily takes in the familiar handwriting, neat and curving after years under Maester Luwin’s tutelage.

> _To the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch,_
> 
> _I know it is the prerogative of the Night’s Watch to take no part in the affairs of the realms, which makes my decree all the more irregular. Yet, as ruler of the North, the very lands in which the Night’s Watch exists, the very lands that have always been a friend to your worthy cause while the other Kingdoms would act as if your plights are ignorable, I feel confident in making such a demand and having it be obeyed by you, the Lord Commander, and the Watch as a whole._
> 
> _I want it to be known that on this day, I, Robb Stark, King in the North and the Trident, hereby pardon my brother, Jon Snow, releasing him from his vows to the Night’s Watch. From this day and every day after, he is to be a free man and no longer tied to the duties of the ancient and noble order of the Night’s Watch. Nor will any man name him a deserter or think him dishonorable for upholding the commands of his king and brother, who now calls him home to Winterfell. In exchange for my brother, I offer 100 able-bodied men all equipped with the proper clothing and weapons of a black brother and 100 fit horses, three carts of weaponry consisting of steel swords, daggers, crossbows, battle axes, bows and arrows, etc., and ten carts of grains and provisions to feed your new recruits._
> 
> _Jon truly is my father’s son and I know he has done House Stark proud in his years as a man of the Night’s Watch, serving both honorably and dutifully. If I know him at all, I imagine he will balk at his pardon, wishing to remain at the Wall and uphold his vows for my brother is not a man to take them lightly. However, he also has a duty to his family and because of that, I know he will understand and accept that it is my will for him to come home and take his rightful place in our House._
> 
> _I trust that you will accept my pardon and release my brother with all possible haste so he can begin the arduous journey home, for spring is a fickle mistress and winter is coming._
> 
> _~ Robb Stark, the King in the North and the Trident_

The crinkled letter falls from Jon’s hands, limply landing in his lap but he hardly notices. Blood pulses through his ears and he doesn’t think he’s drawn breath in the last several minutes.

The Gods must be playing a trick on him. This cannot be real. Robb wouldn’t do this, wouldn’t ask this impossible thing of him. He never has in the past, why would he now? He’s a king, a husband, and a father; why would he have need of his bastard brother? There’s nothing Jon can give him, not now as the wearied, worn down husk of the man he has become. Winter has blown away the summer boy he had once been, winter is now the only thing holding him together; it’s in his bones and in his blood. He is of winter, his place is the Wall.

He cannot return to Winterfell.

“Was there anything else?” Jon frantically asks, grasping at straws as he tries to understand this madness. “A personal note? A letter? Anything for me from my brother’s own hand?” Mayhap, if Robb wrote to him specifically, he would somehow be able to make sense of what was happening.

Thorne holds up a scroll, addressed to Jon and stamped with the direwolf seal. Jon snaps it out of Thorne’s grip, grasping it tightly in his fist as he holds it close to him. He won’t read it now, won’t give Thorne the satisfaction.

“This must be a mistake,” he croaks out. He bares his teeth in frustration when Thorne barks out a harsh laugh, enjoying the misery Jon is subjecting himself to.

“A mistake, Lord Snow says,” Thorne mercilessly taunts. “You think 100 men came here because of a mistake? Every brother in black would be grateful for such a _mistake_, as you so crudely put it. You get to leave here and no one will call you a deserter…at least to your face. But then again, you’ve never been the grateful sort, have you, Snow?”

Jon’s scarred hand curls into a fist. If he were younger and brasher, he’d have flung himself across the desk to punch Thorne right in his smug face. But now all he does in squeeze his fist until his nails cut through his skin and he no longer has feeling in his hand.

“And if I refuse the pardon?”

He knows it’s useless even as he asks. Robb has _declared_ himself Jon’s King. He has _commanded_ him home. How can Jon refuse him? Jon refused Robb only once in their lives and it shattered both of their hearts. Jon doesn’t think he has it in him to do it again when his heart is already so torn apart from what he’s endured.

Thorne’s eyes snap towards him as they turn hard and his voice becomes uncompromisingly stern. “I’d have you lashed out in the yard until you see sense, boy. We need 100 men more than we’ll ever need the likes of you.”

_I shall live and die at my post. _That was the vow. _For this night and all nights to come. _Jon had sworn this, at the heart tree beyond the Wall, in front of the Old Gods – the gods of his father. The men he had once called brothers had turned their backs on him but he was still prepared to fulfill his oath, spend his days at his post until death came for him as it came for all men. And now…now it didn’t even matter. The cruelty of it all threatened to send Jon asunder.

“So this is it then…” Jon muses quietly to himself, nearly forgetting that Thorne was in the same room as him. “Just like that… I’m no longer a brother of the Night’s Watch.”

It feels like a knife to the heart.

“It pays to have a king for a brother, doesn’t it?” Thorne sneers from across the desk. “Justice. Honor. Duty. What are they to a king when all he needs is power? Power to make the Night’s Watch bend to his will. And all for a disgraceful bastard like you, who threw away your honor when you let those savages cross the Wall.”

Thorne shakes his head, the disgust radiating off of him in waves until it threatens to stifle the entire room.

“It’ll be good to be rid of you,” Thorne mutters to himself, likely not caring if Jon can hear him or not. He does not need to be civil now that Jon is no longer under his thumb. He understands enough to hear what Thorne isn’t saying. Though many view Jon with trepidation, men still look to him in times of darkness. Men are still loyal to him.

Thorne – bitterly and begrudgingly – has had to share even a sliver of his power with Jon and he knows it must eat the man up inside, tearing at the seams of his very being to concede anything to a bastard. For how can he truly rule with Jon hovering over his shoulder like some kind of specter, forever haunting the periphery of Castle Black? Jon’s honestly surprised he hasn’t been banished to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea or permanently placed at the Free Folk settlement in the Gift.

It matters little now. Jon is no longer Thorne’s concern.

“You watch has ended, Jon Snow,” Thorne grits out, his words more mockery than anything else as he tramples over the oath Jon was willing to die by. “Now be gone with you. I never want to see your face again.”

It’s a dismissal Jon, for once, isn’t insulted to follow. If he could go the rest of his days without ever setting his sights on Alliser Thorne, then it would be too soon. He stands, Robb’s letters clutched in his hand as he quickly strides from the Lord Commander’s chambers.

The world’s remarkably different yet eerily the same as he stalks through the courtyard, keeping his head down to block out the incessant staring. He offers nothing more than a grunt when Daric tells him that they leave on the morrow after daybreak. He ignores both Stark men and his brothers – _former _brothers – who try to make conversation with him, calling out to him as he hurriedly passes by.

Robb’s words are swirling through his head and all he wants is just to be left alone. Reading his mind, Ghost silently and swiftly appears at his side. His stunning size and disarming eyes are enough of a shield to have men cowering back from the animal lest they want to get on the wrong side of Ghost’s sharp teeth.

He stumbles to his room – small and neglected, but it’s as decent a place as any to rest one’s head. The fire’s nearly out in the hearth and without thinking Jon tends to it, throwing on another log and poking at the embers until a steady flame emerges, allowing a semblance of warmth to wrap around him and the dingy chamber as the wood crackles.

He drops into the nearest seat as gracefully as a sack of flour, his limbs feeling like they weigh a hundred pounds apiece. Blindly, he reaches for the nearest bottle of ale and knocks it back straight from the source, not wasting time pouring it into a cup. He lets the acerbic liquid slide down his throat, wincing at the sour aftertaste.

The ale here really is shit, but it’s all Jon has had for years. He doesn’t know if he can stomach the fine ale and wine that Winterfell has to offer. He doesn’t even know if he wants to try.

After he’s swigged more than his fair share of ale, Jon finally turns his attention to the unopened note Robb has sent him. It’s creased from Jon’s firm grip and with unsure fingers, Jon breaks the seal and slowly unrolls the parchment.

Robb didn’t write much.

> _When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. You don’t have to be alone anymore._
> 
> _It’s time to come home, Jon._

If Jon had been hoping for clarity he is sorely disappointed to find himself more befuddled than before. Robb’s words do nothing to ease his distress. So he continues drinking.

He’s content to lose himself in the burgeoning haze of alcohol when his door bangs open. Edd strolls in like he owns the bloody place, Sam awkwardly shuffling in after, closing the door behind him like a civilized person.

He doesn’t even need to look at their faces to know why they’re here.

“You’ve heard,” he says in lieu of greeting as his eyes move back towards the dancing blaze.

“We’ve all heard,” Edd drily states as he plops down in the only other available chair in the narrow room. He doesn’t even ask for the ale but grabs it out of Jon’s hand to take a hearty sip, wiping at his mouth when he’s done. “It’s the only thing worth talking about in this dump.”

Sam, bless him, says nothing at all, just moves to stand to the side of the fireplace as he turns his sympathetic gaze on Jon, hands wringing together as they always do when he’s nervous. It hits Jon then, how absurd this whole mess is.

“One hundred men in exchange for me,” he announces hollowly to the room, the disbelief dripping with every word he utters. “I can hardly believe it.”

“I can’t believe it either,” Edd chimes in. “I wish my brother was a king. He’s only a lousy butcher.” He glances away as his brows furrow deeply in thought. “I wonder if he sent 100 pigs to the Watch that would be enough for Thorne to release me from my vows.”

As always, Jon can’t tell if Edd is having a jape or being completely serious. No one can ever tell with Edd.

“This is a good thing, isn’t it?” Sam optimistically offers up with a weak smile and wobbling chin, trying his best to be happy for Jon. “I know how much you miss your family, as well as your brother…”

If Sam’s attempting to soothe Jon, he fails miserably at it. His words immediately set Jon on edge as his hand tightens around the bottle of ale – he had stolen it back from Edd’s grubby hands – and his teeth grind together until his jaw spasms.

Once, years ago when he and Sam were still lowly recruits, a late-night had found them sharing ale after sentry duty atop the Wall. Jon, loose-lipped from being far too gone in his cups and feeling sorry for himself as he so often did in those days, hadn’t been able to stop the words pouring out of his mouth as he drunkenly rambled to Sam about his…_proclivities_ and the not so brotherly relationship he had shared with Robb. It hadn’t helped that only that morning, Jon had received a raven from Robb, detailing the alliance he had struck up with the Freys – an alliance forged through _marriage_.

He had woken the next day with a throbbing headache, a severely rolling stomach, and the disgust of knowing he had shared his darkest secret and shame. He had been sure that he had proven Sam right about bastards, that they were every inch as terrible and debauched as everyone claimed. Even worse, he had ruined Robb with his licentious nature, had twisted and warped their relationship into something ugly and impure. How could Sam want to be brothers with a man like that?

He had waited all day in the barracks, half-expecting to be ripped from them by the black brothers and dragged to the yard where they would take his head, sentencing him to damnation for his abominable cravings. It would be no less than he deserved. But they had never come for him.

He and Sam had never spoken of that night. And in all their years together, Sam had never once looked at Jon with disgust or treated him with anything less than the unending kindness and unfailing faith he gave to Jon day in and day out. He, to this day, has been Jon’s truest and dearest friend.

And now they are to be separated. A man he loves as warmly and as tenderly as he does his trueborn brothers. Sam will remain here at Castle Black playing steward to a maester so ancient and withered-away he’s practically witless. It’s an unkind thought about Maester Bayle, who had arrived nearly a year after the passing of Maester Aemon. But honestly, the man’s so useless they might as well not have a maester at all.

Jon’s eyes dart to Sam, who shifts his weight from foot to foot and the guilt curls in Jon’s gut, squeezing until his stomach is tight with knots. There had only been one order he had given in his brief time as Lord Commander that he had made with complete confidence and given with joy: the decree to send Sam to Oldtown so he could train as a maester. 

He had written the letter, sealed it tightly with the Night’s Watch mark, and had handed it over to Sam with a beaming grin. The last thing he had ever anticipated was Sam refusing him. Sam – the most intelligent and knowledgeable person Jon has ever come across, he had seen the dangers lurking in the shadows, all threatening to come for Jon when he let his guard down.

Truly, the only reason Jon stands here today living and breathing is because of Samwell Tarly. It’s a colossal debt he’ll never be able to pay back though he desperately wishes that he could. What persists worse than the guilt of sealing Sam’s fate here at Castle Black is the cutting knowledge of knowing that it is Jon’s own folly that denied Sam any semblance of a life with Gilly and Little Sam.

And yet, Sam still calls him brother without a trace of bitterness in his heart. He treats Jon with a benevolence that Jon will never be close to being worthy of. He will keep performing his duties admirably while Jon…returns home like some kind of craven and only by the grace of a king.

Gods, why has Robb called him home?

It doesn’t make sense. None of it makes any blasted sense. Jon could read Robb’s letters a hundred times and still make no heads or tails of them. It’s silly, to think that there’s an answer or code hidden somewhere in Robb’s words, that if Jon were to just figure this riddle out he would understand why Robb is making this demand of him now, after so much time apart.

“You going then?” Edd asks after several long moments of silence between the three companions. The ghosts of friends and mentors they’ve lost echoes between them, unseen but often felt.

Grenn.

Pyp.

Lord Commander Mormont.

Maester Aemon.

All good men who deserved far better fates than what they had been given. All better men than Jon, yet he’s the one who gets to go home as a free man. 

“I don’t have a choice,” Jon mutters glumly in response.

“You could refuse,” Edd fires back, being a hardass for the sake of it. If Sam has always been a haven to Jon, Edd’s the perpetual annoyance, always poking and prodding at Jon to force a reaction out of him. And a good thing too, for without Edd, Jon would have fallen into a depression long ago and he doubts he would have had the will to drag himself out of it.

“It would hardly endear me to the men, would it?” Jon snaps as he takes a sip of ale. “Throwing my pardon back in their faces by refusing it. Thinking myself above the commands of a king. A king who’s given them more men, supplies, and food then we’d get in a year on our own. I do that and they’ll come after me with knives again.”

His attempt at humor is tepid at best and falls spectacularly flat at the way both Sam and Edd wince. Honestly, Jon finds nothing funny about what he said either and the clamping of his fist is the only thing that stops his hand from flying to his chest where beneath his clothing the proof of his brothers’ treachery dwells.

“And anyway,” he stiffly says in an effort to steer the conversation towards safer territory, “you don’t know my brother. He is…_stubborn_, to say the least. He always has been. And he is used to getting what he wants.”

No, that’s not entirely true.

There was one time when Jon didn’t give in to Robb. And that decision had led him here, to the Night’s Watch and far away from his brother’s side. That decision – made so hastily and with the cocksureness of a boy who thought he understood the world – has molded Jon into the man he is. The ink of that moment has long ago run dry; he cannot go back and change it. Yet, there are still nights when he sits up as the rest of the world sleeps and wonders what would have become of him if he had stayed with Robb.

Would their father’s head still have been taken by those fucking Lannisters? Would the impending war that had followed in the wake of Ned Stark’s death have gone any differently? Would Theon Greyjoy still betray Robb and sack and burn their home? Killing innocent boys they believed to be Bran and Rickon?

Would Robb have still married Jeyne Westerling?

Jon flinches away from the question he’s asked himself a thousand times, conjuring up a thousand different answers. Not a single one ever proves satisfactory. Perhaps it’s better to never know.

Life happened as the Gods willed it to happen. Jon joined the Night’s Watch. Robb married Jeyne Westerling and was crowned King in the North. There’s nothing for it now. Jon’s and Robb’s paths diverged long ago, never intending to cross again. And yet, _different roads sometimes lead to the same castle. _Isn’t that what he said to Arya when parting from her all those years ago? And now, against all odds, fate seems to be leading him back to Winterfell, to Robb’s castle.

“Aye, your brother is a king and kings are mighty stubborn creatures. Some would say him being a king makes you a prince.”

Jon’s glare could curdle milk as his eyes bear into Edd’s. “It makes me brother of a king; nothing more, nothing less.”

Worse, he’s the _bastard_ brother of a king. And seeing what calamities that brought about for the Targaryens with the rebellions that followed, Jon would say that makes him less. Another reason it boggles his mind that Robb is recalling him to Winterfell. Lady Stark had made it implicitly clear that Robb understood everything about the Blackfyre Pretenders, lest her eldest son and heir to Winterfell ever forget how greedy and untrustworthy bastards could be when they coveted the place of their legitimate siblings.

Jon would sooner fling himself on his own sword than take anything that belonged to his brothers and sisters. Still, didn’t Robb see how it was playing with fire to bring Jon home? Jon had a purpose at the Wall; it’d be better for everyone if he stayed here and fulfilled that purpose.

He slumps forward in his seat, his head dropping into his hands as his fingers wind miserably through his hair, tugging on strands despondently.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” he feebly admits. The words have been buried deep within him since Thorne had handed over the letters and it has taken everything in him to pull them out from the dark recesses of doubt and fear where they have been lingering like ill omens. He doesn’t look up as Ghost slinks soundlessly towards him. The wolf rests his large head on Jon’s knee, whining softly until Jon scratches his ear. His head dips down until his forehead pushes into snow-white fur, taking comfort in his most beloved and constant companion.

“You have to do it,” Edd says in that no-nonsense way of his. His dour face softens slightly as he amends his words. “You’ll face it head-on like you do all the other shit that’s been thrown at you.”

Jon snorts weakly into Ghost’s fur but refuses to raise his head as he mumbles out, “I’ve failed at everything I’ve ever had to face.”

He failed his vows when he let himself love Ygritte. He failed Jeor Mormont when he wasn’t there for that dastardly mutiny at Craster’s Keep. He failed the Free Folk he meant to save at Hardhome. He failed as Lord Commander when his own men came after him in the night with knives behind their backs.

Jon Snow was a failure. There was no other way to put it. How can he now return to Winterfell only to end up as a failure to Robb? His brother who had loved him fiercely even when it would have been easier for him not to.

“You’re still standing, aren’t you? That doesn’t sound like failure to me.”

“I don’t think it works like that,” Jon quietly muses as Edd shrugs. He’s said all he needs to say. He stands and clasps Jon’s shoulder, squeezing once before letting his hand drop. He goes out the door, leaving Jon and Sam.

“Why is he doing this, Sam?” Jon asks without looking at his friend. If anyone were to have answers it must be Sam. “Why is Robb calling me home?”

Sam sighs softly to himself. “I don’t know. Maybe he misses you and your…_relationship._”

Jon shoots up in his chair, his eyes cutting towards Sam.

_Ah._ So they’re finally broaching the elephant in the room. Sam’s cheeks have gone pink at the mention. Is it disgust? Is this now the time where Sam admits that he’s abhorred Jon all along? That Jon and his actions sicken him, as they should? Perhaps he’s been waiting for this moment to tell Jon what he truly thinks of him. Perhaps he’s glad that he will not have to be forced to see Jon again.

Dark wings, dark words. This is what Robb has done to him. He’s turned Jon’s world completely on its head, making Jon second-guess everything he once believed to be a fact.

His lips twist into a sardonic grimace as he takes another swig of the ale. “He has a wife and children. Nothing can be as it once was.”

That’s the truth of it. Jon doesn’t begrudge Robb marrying and the children his wife has borne him. That’s always been his destiny as the heir of Winterfell. But yet…a sliver of nasty resentment that’s existed since he was a boy and that he thought he stamped out when he left Winterfell wreaks havoc through him as it always does whenever he thinks of the life Robb’s living while he’s only hobbled together a meek existence in this hellish, cold place that is the Wall.

He knows he’s being viciously unfair and he hates himself for it. The road Robb traveled hasn’t been an easy one even if he has made it look so. He was only a boy forced to become a man when their father went to King’s Landing, pushing Robb into the daunting role of Lord of Winterfell. And then due to the treachery of the Lannisters, Robb had to call the banners and go to war for their family. He had the burden of kingship placed upon his head and all of the North turning to him as their sovereign.

He had to fight battle after battle, outsmarting the crimson lions. He had to stand back and watch as Arya was all but lost to them and Sansa forced into a marriage with their enemy. He was betrayed by the man he called friend and brother, a man who burned Winterfell and killed two innocent boys.

But Robb, as he’s always done, prevailed. He won the war. He took back the North. He became a King of Winter, just as the fabled Stark kings of old. And now he rules from Winterfell with a family of his own.

It’s a pretty picture: Robb with a beautiful wife and children who look like him with their auburn hair and blue eyes. It’s an image so easily rendered in Jon’s mind, something he’s envisioned hundreds of times, but he’s never in it. He doesn’t fit in that precious golden world that his brother built. But now Robb is forcing him to live in it.

There’s not enough ale in the world to get Jon as drunk as he wishes to be. He wants to drink until he’s drowning, then he’ll be too far gone to care about anything or anyone.

“I want to be alone, Sam,” he grumbles out, stubbornly staring into the fire so he doesn’t have to decipher the look in Sam’s eyes. He doesn’t want to see the end of their friendship reflected in them. He lost Robb a long time ago; he can’t lose Sam as well. Then he’ll truly have nothing.

“Jon—“

“I said I want to be alone,” Jon snarls. Ghost growls beside him as his fur stands up on end. He’ll never attack Sam but his posturing is a warning and Sam’s not foolish enough to ignore it. 

Sam goes slowly to the door. Jon’s already set his gaze back on the fire, so he doesn’t notice when Sam halts in the doorway.

“Jon?”

Jon almost wants to ignore him, but he can’t.

“What?” he calls back, still staring into the flames as if the answers he so desperately seeks are hidden in their flickering, orange tendrils.

“No matter if you’re a man of the Night’s Watch or not, you’re still my brother from this day until my last day,” Sam vows with the same fortitude he had in front of the heart tree as he and Jon became men of the Night’s Watch together.

Jon’s stomach drops and the fear that had been twisting through him – so easily turned into a weapon of anger – retreats, like it had never existed at all. He was being stupid, to think that Sam, after everything they’ve been through, could hate him. But he can’t tell up from down or right from left anymore. Nothing makes sense to him. He doesn’t understand the world around him so he lashed out like a silly child to protect himself.

He turns his head to look Sam in the eye, blinking rapidly to hold at bay the wetness he feels gathering in the corners of his lashes.

“Thank you, Sam,” he says sincerely. Sam’s words provide more comfort than he could ever know.

Jon watches as Sam departs, leaving him and Ghost in silence. He lets out a long sigh as he prepares to pass the last night of his watch.

∞ ∞ ∞

_“You’re being stupid.”_

_“Am I?” Jon snapped back. His patience was wearing thin as it had for the last hour he had been subjected to Robb’s loud ranting on just how stupid Jon was being._

_“You are,” Robb hotly declared. He was pacing madly from one end of the room to the other, arms sweeping about as he made his case. His cheeks were red and splotchy, a clear sign that he had worked himself up into a right tizzy as he used every weapon in his arsenal to convince Jon that he was making an idiotic mistake. _

_“And how exactly am I’m being stupid?” Jon barked out as he angrily shoved his clothing into his pack. They would be horribly wrinkled by the time he unpacked them at Castle Black, but he doubted that the men of the Night’s Watch cared about such things._

_Uncle Benjen always appeared windswept and ruffled when he came for his rare visits to Winterfell. His appearance was the last thing on the ranger’s mind. He had more important things to contend with, such as protecting the realms of men against those savages living across the Wall. Soon enough, Jon would be fighting as his uncle’s side._

_Jon was standing at the foot of his bed as he attempted to pack his meager belongings. Ten-and-seven years of living on this earth and he hardly had a possession to his name. It should be depressing that his entire life fit snugly in a saddlebag. It **was** depressing. Jon just didn’t have it in him to care at the moment. Caring was a weakness and now, on the eve of his departure, he needed to face what was to come on the morrow._

_His eyes glanced Robb’s way. It was a surprising sight, Robb being here in Jon’s shabby and unloved room. Their nights spent together were exclusively in Robb’s bed. But with the arrival of the King and Queen and their massive entourage from King’s Landing, Theon was temporarily bunking in Robb’s chambers in order to make room for so many foreign guests. Knowing that Greyjoy could barge in at any moment had forcefully killed any desire Jon had to sneak into Robb’s quarters._

_With so many visitors milling about the castle, Jon and Robb had to content themselves with fast kisses in shadowy corridors and clandestine meetings in the Godswood. Only a sennight earlier, they had chanced a risky rendezvous in the armory and had nearly been caught by a Lannister squire. Jon thanked the Gods they had gotten out of that mess without raising any eyebrows. How else would he have explained having his hand shoved down Robb’s trousers? Just one brother scratching another brother’s itch?_

_The comical thought had Jon snorting as he continued packing, giving half an ear to listen to Robb’s nonsensical ravings. Eventually, Robb would tire himself out. But, it seemed, Jon had vastly underestimated the lengths Robb would go to in order to win._

_“You’re running away like some kind of craven.”_

_That statement had Jon’s blood boiling as he whirled on Robb with a fierce scowl. Jon might be a lot of things – things he wouldn’t even admit to himself for fear of acknowledging the truth of them – but he wasn’t a coward and damn Robb for even implying such a slanderous lie._

_“I’m not running away!” he spat out. “I’m joining the Night’s Watch. There is a great honor in doing such, even Father says so.”_

_Robb scoffed, his face twisting with contempt. “Father only accepts your decision because you’ve somehow convinced him that that’s what you want.”_

_“It is what I want,” Jon growled in response. He reached up and pinched his nose in frustration. He could feel a headache beginning to form at the base of his neck as his muscles tightened in impending irritation._

_“Horseshit. Your place is **here**, at Winterfell. Especially now that Father is going south and taking the girls with him. I need you here.”_

_“Robb—“_

_“Where you go, I go,” Robb interrupted with a raised voice as if trying to make Jon see reason. “That’s how it’s always been since we were babes. How can you now go somewhere I cannot follow?”_

_Jon blew out a breath, feeling himself deflate at Robb’s imploring gaze. “Robb, I cannot stay here and you know it.”_

_“Who says?” Robb volleyed back, not letting Jon gain an inch in this argument. “I am the future Lord of Winterfell, and with Father leaving I am now the Stark in Winterfell, which means that if I say you will stay then you will stay. No one would dare challenge it.”_

_He stated it so assuredly as if saying so made it real. Jon had always admired that about Robb, his sheer tenacity in making the world bend to his will. He was not the kind of man to take no for an answer._

_But he would have to now. Jon had set his sights firmly on the Night’s Watch. He would not be moved, not even by the brother he loved so completely._

_“Why can’t you see it, Robb?” Jon exasperatedly asked. He could plainly see what Robb was blind to. “There’s no place for me here.”_

_“No place for you here?” Robb looked as if Jon had socked him in the stomach; the air completely forced out of his lungs. “You could be my castellan or my master-at-arms. Hells, Jon! I could even give you lands and a title and you could be one of my bannermen.”_

_Robb made it sound so effortlessly easy that Jon wanted to believe him. He wanted to take that confidence Robb was born with and store it in his heart so it could be a boon to him as he faced an uncertain future. But there were some things that not even Robb – bullheaded, stubborn Robb – could change._

_“There are opportunities for you here but you refuse to see them because of your damned pride!”_

_The words came out before Robb could stop them and the damage was inflicted instantly as Jon tensed, his shoulders going rigid. _

_“Pride?” Jon glowered at Robb, shaking his head unbelievingly as he turned away from his brother. “You think I’m leaving the only home I’ve ever known because of **pride?** What use is pride for a bastard?”_

_Bastards were given nothing in this world, least of all pride. What could Jon possibly be proud of? That he was the one, tarnished stain on Eddard Stark’s infamous honor? That his mother – whoever she might have been – had likely seduced Lord Stark from his marriage vows? Everywhere he turned in the North, he was always met with the same disparaging comment: ‘**Oh, you’re Ned Stark’s bastard.’** It was the only thing people saw when they looked at him. Hells, his identity was so far-flung throughout Westeros that even the Imp had taken an interest in him._

_The last thing Jon was allowed as a bastard was pride._

_Robb’s blue eyes gleamed sadly in the faint candlelight flickering throughout Jon’s cramped room. “You’ve always been more than a bastard to me; you’ve just never let yourself see it.”_

_They were kind words, kinder words than Jon deserved. He stood there having no idea what to say. Just as he opened his mouth to fumble out an uncomfortable response, he was cut off by a bone-chilling noise that swept into the room from the open window._

_Howling._

_It was Bran’s nameless direwolf. The animal cried out; a sharp, keening noise that sliced through the night air and had Jon’s nerves on edge. The mournful wail was soon joined by the wolf’s littermates, until their howls echoed all around like an unworldly melody, wrapping around the walls and towers of Winterfell, reverberating into the ancient stones._

_They had been doing that every night for the last week, keeping the castle’s occupants awake until the early hours of the morning. No one was happy about it. That prick of a prince Joffrey had loudly been complaining earlier that day. He had threatened that if the direwolves didn’t shut up he’d have his Hound put them down. Jon had wanted to wipe that smarmy smile off the prince’s face. But it hadn’t been worth risking his head over. He rather liked living._

_With clenched fists, Jon stalked to the window, ready to shut out the cries of distress. He didn’t need an omen of death overhanging his last night in Winterfell. Things were already dire enough._

_He paused at the window sill, his hand raised to the glass as he looked out through the diamond panes. It was silent and still in the courtyard below, save for the guards at their posts. He raised his head and gazed at the Godswood. Even in the dark embrace of night, the fiery red leaves of the heart tree could easily be seen among the green sea of the surrounding acreage. It was a brilliant blaze set against the inky night._

_Jon had spent much of his free time this past week in the Godswood, on his knees at the Weirwood tree with a bent head as he fervently prayed to the Old Gods._

_He had been praying for Bran. Praying for his younger brother to awaken from his unending slumber. Praying that when he did wake, Bran would still be granted the gift of his legs, able to walk and run and climb as he so loved to do. He prayed that Bran would still become the knight he dreamed of being, as valiant and as brave as Ser Duncan the Tall._

_How could this have happened? Bran was the surest climber, had been bouncing off the walls of Winterfell from the time he could walk. He must have climbed the Broken Tower a thousand times in his short life. How in the hells did he fall from it?_

_Jon hadn’t seen the fall, but he had heard the screams. His feet had taken off without consent and he had found himself at the Broken Tower, pushing through the thick crowd of horrified gawkers. He had seen his little brother lying there, dreadfully still and limbs askew. He had looked so like a broken doll—_

_Jon slammed the window shut so forcefully that the glass rattled. He forced himself to breathe out, shuddering as he did so. The fire in him that had been scorching during his row with Robb now ebbed until it was only dying embers. The heat had gone out of him._

_He looked Robb’s way. His brother had given up pacing and was now slumped in front of the hearth with a bent head and his hands resting on the mantle as he peered into the flames. He looked as defeated and worn down as Jon felt. Robb, the prized golden child of House Stark, who was normally so full of life and energy. Robb, who always had an easy smile gracing his boyishly handsome face. Broody and sullen, those were Jon’s traits; accustomed as he was to forever being in the formidable shadow of his brother. And yet Robb was as withdrawn as Jon often portrayed as he stared down into the fire. _

_Gods, what was wrong with them? They were behaving like crazed wolves, snapping at each other’s necks looking for ways to hurt the other. Tomorrow, everything would change. Father, Arya, and Sansa would go south, Jon would go north, and Bran…Bran might never wake up. Their family – their **pack **– was being split apart and this was how they acted?_

_Was this really the last memory he wanted of Robb? Would this memory carry him through the harshness of life at the Wall with its blustering winds and its unceasing coldness?_

_He didn’t want to spend tonight – their **final **night – fighting each other. He wanted to forget about the outside world and all the misery that existed in it. He wanted to forget that Bran might truly be lost to them. He wanted to forget that Arya – Arya, who held a place in Jon’s heart that not even Robb could touch; Arya, who was as much of the North as Jon – was being dragged to King’s Landing, a place that only seemed poised to crush her untamable spirit._

_He wanted so many things. Mostly, he just wanted Robb. He’d take him any way he could have him. Let the Others take him for his sinful desires; he couldn’t pretend to give a damn about them now._

_It was that want – a pleasant thrumming in his bloodstream – that propelled him forward until he was a shadow at Robb’s backside. He slowly placed a hand on Robb’s shoulder, prepared to be shaken off as Robb was wont to do when in a foul mood. Robb tensed beneath his touch but made no move to dislodge Jon’s hand. He remained still as a statue, neither welcoming nor objecting to Jon’s presence._

_To others, it would seem a clear signal for retreat as Robb peered indifferently into the fireplace. But Jon knew Robb’s body as well as he knew his own, if Robb didn’t want Jon touching him then Jon would sure as hells know it._

_“This could be the last night we ever have together,” Jon told him in a hushed voice, not wanting to disturb the calm that had settled between the two. “Do you really want to spend it quarreling?”_

_A treacherously long moment passed without any indication on Robb’s part. Feeling as if, for the first time, he had misread the situation; Jon began pulling his hand back with a quiet, dejected sigh. He hadn’t even taken one step back when Robb spun around, hands reaching for Jon’s face as he yanked him forward into a harsh kiss. It was more teeth – clashing violently against one another – than lips. Robb swallowed the surprise whine that bubbled out of Jon._

_It was a fierce and unforgiving kiss and Jon surrendered completely to it, letting himself be drowned beneath the crashing waves of the storm that was his brother. Robb bit down on Jon’s bottom lip and Jon didn’t deny him as he parted his lips and let Robb’s tongue sweep in, plundering his mouth to take everything that Jon would give him._

_Robb’s hands slid down Jon’s jaw and shoulders before settling on his chest, fingers digging into the cloth of his tunic. A shove had Jon stumbling backward as Robb kept pushing at him until the backs of Jon’s legs collided with his bed. He fell onto the fur-covered mattress, Robb following him down and covering Jon’s body with his own. Insistent fingers tugged Jon’s tunic up until he was freed from it._

_The coarse furs prickled Jon’s bare skin, a striking contrast against the hefty heat of Robb straddling him, snugly bracketing Jon in with his thighs. Both boys were breathing heavily, their harsh pants the only sound in the chamber other than the crackling of the fire._

_“This is mine,” Robb asserted as his hands reverently ran up and down Jon’s chest, leaving no inch of skin untouched. “No one else’s.”_

_“No one,” Jon agreed with a broken gasp as Robb thumbed at his nipple. He felt like was being burned alive from the inside but he loved every moment of it. A death like this, so torturous yet so satisfying, was worthy of the Gods._

_“You belong to **me,** Jon,” Robb commanded from above him. His lips were swollen from their kisses and his cheeks were flushed the most alluring shade of red. His eyes, even with their firelight reflecting in them, were nearly black with lust. “Do you understand that?”_

_“Aye, I belong to you,” Jon groaned as Robb lewdly rolled his hips and Jon desperately bucked up, searching for friction. “And you belong to me.”_

_That’s the way it had always been between them. Robb was as much Jon’s as Jon was Robb’s. They were half of the same beating heart, the same living soul. It was as Robb said where one went the other inevitably followed. In another, kinder life where Jon wasn’t a bastard and Robb the heir of Winterfell, he would have gladly done anything to spend a lifetime with Robb._

_"Aye,” Robb gritted out as they rutted against each other with wild abandon. They were scrambling to touch each other, Jon clutching Robb’s arms to keep him close. They only had tonight and they would make the most of it. “You are mine and I am yours.”_

_Jon’s hand went to the back of Robb’s neck, fingers tangling in the hair there as he tightened his grip and pulled Robb down to him. Their mouths met in the middle, quickly moving together to wage war as the rest of the world faded away until the only two left in existence were Jon and Robb._

_Clothes were tossed aside until they were as naked as the days they came into this world. Their movements were frantic and frenzied as they came together. Tonight was not for sweet caresses and tender kisses; tonight was for marking – for claiming each other for the other._

_Fingertip-shaped bruises were pressed into Jon’s hips, their purple hues a startling contrast to Jon’s ivory skin. Robb was ravenous as he attacked Jon’s body, sucking hickeys down his neck, littering them across Jon’s collarbones and chest, planting them on the smooth skin of his stomach, even peppering them down Jon’s thighs. And with every new mark he drew on the canvas that was Jon’s body, he muttered to himself, “mine.” Like a promise._

_ **“Mine.” “Mine.” “Mine.” “Mine.”** _

_A lifetime could have passed by the time they collapsed against each other, sweaty and sated with their legs tangled together until it was nearly impossible to tell what limb belonged to whom. They laid like that for a long time, with Jon on his back and Robb curled into him, his head resting on Jon’s shoulder as Jon lazily ran his fingers through Robb’s hair._

_Most of the candles had burned low and the only true source of light was that of the fire as it cast hypnotic shadows that danced across the stone walls. Robb’s breaths had evened out and they fanned gently against Jon’s cooling skin._

_He almost thought him asleep and was surprised when Robb shifted closer, turning his mouth into Jon’s shoulder as he quietly whispered, “I don’t want you to go.” He wouldn’t even look at Jon, not letting him see the fragile vulnerability dwelling in Robb’s eyes. He thought such a thing a weakness, one that could not be tolerated in the heir of Winterfell._

_Jon’s fingers momentarily stopped their ministrations. He opened his mouth and felt Robb go ramrod straight against him as he stubbornly turned his head away with a clenched jaw. Jon could only sigh. There was nothing he could say to comfort his brother. He was going to the Night’s Watch. They both knew that. Their time together had come to an end._

_There were so many things that Jon wished he had the ability to say. He wanted to tell Robb that he loved him, that he would always love him. And not just as a brother – though that was true, for Robb was both his brother and best friend and greatest rival all wrapped together. But Jon also loved Robb as more than a brother; he loved him the way a man loves a woman, wrong and confusing it may be. No one would ever capture his heart as thoroughly as Robb had done. That everything good and kind in Jon’s world came from the love Robb bore him._

_Jon wanted to say so many things, but the words were all muddled together in his head. And he knew that even if he could be half as eloquent as he desired to be, nothing he could say would ease the pain that they were both feeling. All he had were empty words and he wouldn’t have those be the last things he might ever say to Robb._

_His fingers slowly resumed their stroking and though it took time, Robb eventually relaxed against Jon as the two laid in each other’s embrace._

_They didn’t speak again until the next morning, standing in the courtyard as light snow fell around them, adorning their heads like crowns while white flakes melted in their hair._

_“Farewell, Snow.”_

_“And you, Stark.”_

∞ ∞ ∞

It is silent and still as Jon steps out of his quarters. The sun hasn’t yet risen and the sky above him is ashen grey with rolling clouds as far as the eye can see. It seems that it will be another dreary day at Castle Black, as it always is. Not even spring can penetrate the cold that thrives here. A cold that burrows into men’s bones until they forget what it was like to ever be warm, to ever belong to summer. 

Jon doesn’t run into anyone as he walks through the yard and for that he is grateful. He doesn’t want to endure the stares that would be directed at him if men were awake and moving about.

He hadn’t slept a wink the night before. And he’s paying for it now as his bones ache from an unforgiving night sitting on a wooden chair with only Ghost and a bottle of ale for company. He feels ancient. It is laughable how he feels so old when he hasn’t even reached his 30th name day. He is, by all accounts, a young man – still in his prime, but he doesn’t feel it most days.

How could he have slept? A part of him has hoped that yesterday was some kind of bizarre dream; that when the sun rose everything would be once again normal. He would still be a man of the Night’s Watch. Yet this morning, Robb’s letters were still clutched in Jon’s hand. Even out here in the courtyard, remnants of the 100 men that have come to take Jon’s place lay littered about.

This is no dream. Jon can’t decide if it is some kind of nightmare.

Jon walks up the frost-covered gangplank that leads to the elevator that will take him to the top of the Wall. He enters the wooden and iron cage, shutting the door behind him before nodding to the men manning the operating wheel. They grunt and push at the contraption and with a deep groan, the lift begins its ascent.

Slowly, Jon rises above the world until Castle Black is a speck below him, sucked up by clouds. By the time he’s reached the top, a strong breeze is whipping past him, rippling through his cloak and mussing up his bound hair. He keeps his head down as he walks along the icy ramparts, ignoring the men on sentry duty. He comes to a stop at a wooden platform jutting out as it overlooks the lands beyond the Wall.

_The real North_, as Tormund likes to boast with a brazen grin. He knows how much it nettles Jon to refer to the North as _southern_. Jon has spent more than his fair share in those lands; lands that were as ruggedly beautiful as they were deadly. It was beyond the Wall where Jon had learned that he could love someone other than Robb, even if he only had half a heart to give. And it was here, at Castle Black, where his heart – or whatever was left of it – was shattered beyond repair when he held Ygritte’s body in his arms as she left him.

So many memories that Jon’s collected over the years like raindrops falling from the sky.

Jagged, snowcapped mountains and thick forests stretch out before him as an otherworldly mist rises up from the snow, snaking hauntingly through the trees. Jon has seen this landscape a thousand times before; he can hardly believe that this is the last time he will ever stand here, atop the world.

He has no reason to ever return to Castle Black. Not even his love for Sam and Edd seem like a strong enough pull to come to the place that all but destroyed him. A place where the men look at him with a strange mixture of awe and repulsion; where the whispers never cease about his exploits, both true and false.

His place isn’t at the Night’s Watch anymore; it truly hasn’t been for years even if he was willing to endure it, to do his duty. But he doesn’t know if his place is at Winterfell again after a decade of being away from the keep he once called home.

Mayhaps, Jon doesn’t belong anywhere. That was the life of a bastard, was it not? To never belong.

Knowing that he’s fallen into one of his characteristic moods, Jon tries to shake himself out of it. He hadn’t come up here to brood, or at least, not to brood the entire time he was up here. There was a purpose for this.

He turns eastward just in time to see the clouds part as the sun begins to rise, bathing the land in its golden glow. Colors pour out until the clouds ripple like a brilliant orange and pink sea. For a moment, the sun shines down on Jon, warming his body that has gotten terribly used to the cold.

Jon’s eyes flutter shut as he lets the heat wash over him. He breathes out deeply and for the first time since receiving Robb’s letters, he feels a semblance of – if not peace, then at least acceptance. He still has his doubts. He still wonders why any of this is happening. But now, with the sun casting its light upon him, he feels like he can face the tumultuous road lying ahead of him. 

He stays atop the Wall until the sun has fully risen and the rest of the world has come to life with it. He backs off the platform, going to the southern side of the Wall as he looks down to Castle Black and watches the tiny black dots of men, looking like scurrying ants from his vantage point, moving about the courtyard far below.

It’s time for him to rejoin the world. It’s time for him to leave Castle Black.

He heads back to the lift, tugging at his dyed jerkin as he does so. Clothes had been sent to him from Winterfell; leathers and furs, all a fine quality and nimbly crafted. Finer than what he had worn as a boy growing up the son (bastard he may have been) of a Lord.

Clothes fitting for the brother of a king, he imagines. But he doesn’t know how to be brother to a king he hasn’t seen in so many years. So he’s resisting wearing them. In the part of his heart that feels the most like his father, he is still a brother of the Night’s Watch. His vows and sense of duty are so deeply ingrained they cannot be shucked off as simply as a worn garment. So he remains in his black livery, his cloak, with its woolly pelt hanging off his shoulders, trailing behind him with every step he takes.

Perhaps somewhere along their estimated three-week journey to Winterfell, he will cast aside these weighty remembrances of the Night’s Watch and let himself wear the clothes that have been sent to him. Or perhaps he will wear his somber attire as he sets his eyes upon Robb. Let his brother see what has become of him in the time they have been apart.

_Next time I’ll see ya, you’ll be all in black._

He wouldn’t want to disappoint his brother.

The lift lands at the bottom of the Wall and Jon exits it to find the courtyard active with recruits training and men going about their daily tasks. He ignores the gawking and hushed whispers that erupt at his presence and he keeps his head held high as he marches forward.

Daric and his fellow guard Ruger are there with their horses, ready to escort Jon back to Winterfell. _A bastard with his own personal escort, _it’s enough to have Jon’s eyes rolling. What? Does Robb think he’s forgotten the way back to Winterfell? Or does he think that, if left to his own devices, Jon will simply end up anywhere but Winterfell? It’s not a thought without merit. It certainly had passed through Jon’s mind last night during the waning hours of his vigil. If here were alone, who would stop him from riding to White Harbor and booking passage to anywhere in the known world?

He won’t do it though. He has his reservations about returning to Winterfell, about becoming a brother again to Robb whose motives remain a mystery to him. But he won’t shame the good act Robb has done for the Night’s Watch in providing men and supplies by running away. He has more honor than that, even if a man like Thorne refuses to acknowledge it.

Sam and Edd are standing off to the side and it brings a weary smile to his face to see them waiting for him. He’s never been a particularly outgoing or charismatic man and the number of friends he had at Winterfell, other than his siblings, had been scarce.

It was only here, at the Wall, that he had made true friends who he had fought and bled beside; friends he would gladly give his life for. And ever since _that night, _he’s been an island unto himself and hasn’t felt the need to let anyone in other than Sam and Edd.

While his emotions battle each other on leaving the Night’s Watch, he does feel genuine sadness at leaving Sam and Edd. They are his brothers as much as Robb, Bran, and Rickon. And to know that he won’t see them every day, that he won’t hear Edd’s dry quips or Sam’s witty anecdotes, it leaves an ache in his chest where his heart should be.

He stops in front of Edd and the words he wants to say glue themselves to the roof of his mouth, forcing them back down his throat. Jon’s never been very good at saying goodbye. Instead, he looks to the Wall as it looms over them, glacial and ominous and oh so permanent. It’ll still be standing long after they’re dead.

“Don’t knock it down while I’m gone,” he jokes in a gruff voice. It’s not even close to what he wants to say, but from the way Edd’s lips quirk up, it seems that the other man understands.

“I’ll do my best,” Edd solemnly promises and the two look at each other for a moment before embracing tightly, Jon roughly patting Edd’s back.

“Good luck,” Edd tells him as they release each other. Jon appreciates the sentiment; he will need all the luck he can get as he returns to the one place he never dreamed of seeing again. He moves to Sam next and it’s a cruel punch to his gut to see the downtrodden expression Sam wears, even as he valiantly tries to mask it, most likely for Jon’s own sake. He knows how easily Jon wears guilt, wrapping it around himself like the heavy cloak resting on his shoulders.

Anxiously, Sam frets with his jerkin and Jon watches with furrowed brows as Sam produces a wrinkled parchment.

“I-I was hoping…well, that you could give this to Gilly – if you happen to see her, that is! It isn’t much but…if you could just make sure she reads it. Well, I don’t know if she can read all on her own, but I’m sure Little Sam must know by now and he’ll read it to her or—“

“I will, Sam,” Jon gently promises, cutting off his friend’s nervous babbling. He takes the letter and tucks it into his jerkin, silently vowing to keep it close during his journey. Sam jerkily nods as he stares down at his mud-crusted boots.

“And if you could tell her…tell her that I think of her every day, her and Little Sam. And that – and that I hope she’s happy. Even if that means she’s happy with another man—“

“I’ll tell her, Sam.” Jon’s throat closes up as he looks at the anguish so present in Sam’s telling face. And as always, the guilt eats away at him like a virus. _He_ did this, unintentionally or not, and there’s nothing he can do to fix it. “Of course I’ll tell her.”

He throws his arms around Sam, hugging him with everything he has in him. Sam clings back just as hard as the two embrace. Jon’s eyes clamp shut as his chin rests on the furs of Sam’s cloak; it smells of winter and ink and the books that Sam cherishes.

“You’re my brother too,” Jon mutters into Sam’s ear for only him to hear. It’s important that Sam knows this beyond a shadow of a doubt. For all that Jon’s been touted as Sam’s protector, it is Sam who saved Jon when it most counted. “From this day until my last day.”

He pulls back but doesn’t release Sam, keeping a firm grip on his shoulders as he looks into his eyes. “Become a maester, Sam,” he tells him with a firm shake. “Become the finest maester Castle Black has ever known.”

He can’t make up for the past and this doesn’t fix everything, but it’s a start. Jon’s somehow been granted a new life beyond the harsh realities of Castle Black, he’ll be damned if Sam isn’t given that same chance.

Sam blushes as he sheepishly shakes his head. “I doubt I could hold a candle to Maester Aemon.”

“Perhaps not,” Jon agrees with a small smile, “but it wouldn’t hurt to try.”

“But the Lord Commander …”

Thorne may hate Sam nearly as much as he despises Jon, but he is not a man completely lacking in reason or fueled only by spite. He’ll know that Sam is their only chance at having a halfway competent maester. And Thorne – for better or worse – has always tried to do right by the Watch. He’ll send Sam to Oldtown. He’ll have an incentive now knowing that denying Sam no longer works as a form of self-flagellation for Jon.

“You’re the smartest person I know, Sam. I’m sure you’ll bring the Lord Commander around.”

Jon claps Sam’s shoulder a final time before pulling away from his best friend. If he doesn’t go now he fears he never will. And even as most of him wants to go – if only to get away from the hell the Castle Black has become for him, a part of him wishes to stay. The Wall’s the only life he’s known these last ten years. What if he can’t be anything other than a man of the Night’s Watch? What if he can’t be whoever Robb is wanting him to be?

It’s with these questions making a mess of his head that he forces himself to step towards his saddled horse. With a nod towards Daric, the three mount their horses and with a gentle nudge, Jon’s palfrey begins its journey. Ghost is a white shadow at his side, trotting ahead of the horses. Jon can only stare ahead as they venture through the open gate, leaving Castle Black and the world he knew behind them.

Against all odds, Jon’s watch has ended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been a longtime Jon/Robb fan and now with rewatching the series and reading a shit ton of fanfiction, I thought I'd throw my hat in the ring and write this little fic. My first GoT fanfic, it's exciting to step out of my fandom comfort zone and away from the characters I usually write for. Funnily enough, this was only supposed to be a one-shot but when I came to the end of the first act it was already at 14k words and I went, 'Well, this is no longer a one-shot.' Right now, I am tentatively thinking this will be three parts, but I will have to see what shape it takes as I continue writing.
> 
> With Jon in this chapter, I really wanted to convey how worn down he has become in his service to the Night's Watch and how it's stripped him of any real joy. He's meant to be as he was in early S6 after being resurrected, where the betrayal of his men and his guilt over his own failure as a leader are crushing him down. And since in this story, Sansa never came to the Wall she wasn't there to provide Jon with any spark of hope or purpose, all those feelings he had have now been with him in the intervening years since. So it's really aged him, both mentally and physically. He is, in a lot of ways, just a shell of who he used to be. Which is why his world is so rocked when Robb now calls him home because Jon doesn't think he's anything close to the boy Robb remembers, so he can't fathom why Robb would want him around now. Hopefully, that came across well in the chapter.
> 
> Would love to hear your thoughts on the chapter! Let me know what you think! <3


	2. the ghost of you, it keeps me awake

“White Wolf! White Wolf!”

Children of the Free Folk gleefully clamor around Jon, laughing and shrieking as they tug on his cloak and run through his legs as he strides through their settlement that is located in the sprawling lands of the Gift.

Only five days away from the snow and ice of the Wall and Castle Black and it seems like another world entirely with its gentle, rolling hills and lush, green pastures. Dotting the horizon as far as Jon can see are the circular tents that the Free Folk call home, lined with the beaten and worn skins of reindeers and stags. Far off in the distance, he can make out the massive forms of mammoths peacefully grazing in a large field.

The Free Folk – much as they have made a home for themselves in the area Jon, when still Lord Commander, gave them in the Gift – are wanderers at heart. They’re not people used to putting down roots. They’ll never live in stone houses that can stand for hundreds of years. In the spring and summer, they inhabit the fertile regions of the Gift, hunting and foraging. Some have even taken to farming, simple things like oats and occasionally wheat.

Jon knows that when winter comes, they’ll migrate west to the Bay of Ice, seeking shelter in the rugged mountains and dense forests there. He can only hope they’ll manage a somewhat peaceful coexistence with the various mountain clans who live in that rocky abode.

Over the years, many have accused Jon of being obstinately single-minded when he chose to be. It was the Stark in him. When he made a decision he felt was the right and just one, no one was likely to deter him from going forward with it. Case in point, he had decided that the best thing for all the realms of men was to allow the Free Folk to pass through the Wall to save them from the terror beyond it.

He didn’t regret making that decision even with the consequences of it. However, truthfully, he hadn’t particularly put much thought in the ‘after’ of it all. Like, what would happen to the Free Folk _after_ they crossed the Wall? Where would they go? Could they live harmoniously with Northerners, two groups of people who had hated each other for more than 8000 years?

And, as always, the burden of answering such monumental questions had landed squarely on Jon’s already burdened shoulders. Only days after his resignation as Lord Commander, Thorne had tasked him with settling the Free Folk in the Gift and being the mediator between them and the North. Sometimes, when’s Jon’s feeling particularly morose, he thinks Thorne only gave him such an ‘honor’ because he knew the likelihood of bloodshed breaking out between the two disparate groups seemed tantamount and perhaps Jon would be killed in the crossfire.

It wasn’t a farfetched scheme. The year Jon had spent living among the Free Folk, advocating on their behalf to the various Northern Lords and Ladies who lived near the borders of the Gift, had often been fraught with tension that at times seemed likely to ratchet up into physical violence. In many ways, that year had been the fight of Jon’s life. Every day had been a new battle awaiting him. He had lost just as many as he had won. And even more had been a draw with no clear victor. The work had been unforgiving and thankless more often than not. 

His opponents had been formidable. Torghen Flint, Hugo Wull, Brandon Norrey, and Torren Liddle of the mountain clans had cursed him out and knocked him down to size until he had only felt two feet tall. Trying to reason with them had been as fruitful as bashing his head into a wall. But he had kept at it, kept digging away at their stony facades until they begrudgingly acquiesced over time. He must have done something right because the last time he had seen the clans’ leaders they had called him ‘the Jon’. A true mark of respect for any man of the North.

Maege Mormont had been poised to take Jon’s head off with her trusty mace. It was only the love she bore for her dead brother and that fact that Jon had Longclaw – the ancestral sword of House Mormont – strapped to his hip that had quelled her simmering anger. She hadn’t liked or fully accepted the Free Folk as members of the North, but she had been willing to work with Jon and that mattered above all else.

But, by far, Jon’s fiercest and loudest combatant had been none other than Lord Umber of Last Hearth. The Umbers hated the Free Folk with a fiery passion and had been killing them for centuries. Peace with the Free Folk was an insult to their very core. It hadn’t been easy. Jon had gotten into more than his fair share of screaming matches with the booming Greatjon.

It was only the fact that he was Ned Stark’s son and Robb Stark’s brother that halted Lord Umber from outright killing Jon and the Free Folk. But somehow – Jon still doesn’t know how – he made headway with the notoriously hardheaded Umber. The Greatjon even reluctantly seemed to respect, or at least tolerate, Jon in return. It was more than Jon could ever hope for.

In the end, it had all been about the compromise between the two adversarial groups. So much compromise, in fact, that no one had walked away very happy. This, in Jon’s eyes, meant that it had worked. The Free Folk, though living on lands that belonged to the Night’s Watch, would live under the jurisdiction of Northern law.

They would not raid, pillage, or rape the nearby keeps and villages scattered around the countryside. If caught doing so, they would face Northern justice at the end of a blade. Any Northerner who molested or assaulted an unsuspecting Free Folk would face the same. In that first year, Longclaw had been bloodied more times than Jon could count as he took the heads of both Free Folk and Northmen alike who skittered the law.

As a sign of good faith to the highly suspicious Northern Lords, many of the children of the Free Folk’s leaders were now fostered in various keeps and castles, much in the same way Theon Greyjoy had been a ward of Jon’s own father. Though Theon, for all intents and purposes, had been a hostage meant to force Balon Greyjoy’s cooperation, he had only been treated with the utmost respect and kindness befitting his station. Ned Stark had raised him alongside his sons. Robb had loved him as dearly as a brother, folly though it was to their family in the end. 

It was that same respect and kindness that Jon demanded for the new charges of the lords and ladies of the North. He had made them all sign binding agreements and during his year at the settlement, he had traveled often to check in and make sure the children were not being mistreated or mishandled in any way by their guardians.

From Bear Island to Last Hearth, children of the Free Folk were growing up alongside children of Northmen as the two groups grew ever more intertwined. Even Tormund’s eldest son, Balorn, was being fostered at Winterfell as a sign of goodwill by Robb. His sterling example had been the only reason the other lords had fallen in line, and even then they had only done so grudgingly.

Even at the Wall, Jon had still received updates on the progress of the children being fostered. Maege Mormont’s ward, a spitfire of a girl named Nelsa, was proving to be every inch a fearsome she-bear, just like Maege’s own formidable daughters.

The accord that had been struck between the North and the Free Folk was tenuous and constantly shifting. But it has held these last five years. It has endured. Anyone trying to break it, whether they are Northmen or Free Folk, faced swift, Northern justice. Jon is not proud of many of the things he has done in his life, but he is proud of this. If this is his legacy, the thing by which he will be remembered long after he’s dead, then he can find no qualms with it. It is more that he rightfully deserves.

Jon’s broken from his wandering thoughts when he feels the ground tremble beneath his feet. He looks up just as Wun Wun sprucely stomps by. The giant, as always, is truly a striking sight to behold, looming above them at his great height. 

_“Snow,”_ he greets in that gravelly, ancient voice of his. He inclines his head to Jon and Jon returns the courteous gesture before Wun Wun slowly ambles away. Glancing at his two companions, Jon can’t keep the smirk off his face as he sees how utterly dumbstruck the two are. They look as shell-shocked as Jon did when he first stepped foot in Mance Rayder’s camp.

“Giants,” Jon remarks with amusement curling through his words. “You get used to them.”

He chuckles under his breath as he continues walking. Once the shock wears off, Daric and Ruger hurry to match his pace. They follow the winding path that leads them to the center of the camp where the only permanent structure stands tall above the sea of tents surrounding it.

A great, wooden longhouse constructed of sturdy timber. It is here where the various clan leaders meet and feast. And waiting before the longhouse is the person Jon was here to seek out.

Tormund Giantsbane stands there in his usual seal pelt with fraying fur hanging off his burly shoulders. He’s just as Jon remembers him, with his crazy, red hair and a merry if slightly manic look in his eyes. Those same eyes nearly glow rabidly as he catches sight of Jon in his black leathers and furs. A beaming grin crosses his bearded face as he opens his arms and charges towards Jon with reckless abandon.

“My little crow!” he bellows for all to hear as he sweeps Jon up in a crushing embrace. The force of it has Jon grunting as Tormund squeezes him for all he’s worth. A part of him fears that he’ll end up with a broken rib from such vigorous affection.

“T-Tormund,” Jon wheezes out with a futile pat to his friend’s back. “I can’t breathe.”

That only makes Tormund laugh louder and with a final, backbreaking crush, he releases Jon. He pulls back but keeps his hands firmly on Jon’s shoulders as he regards the younger man.

“You look like shit,” he bluntly states. Jon can’t very well argue with that assessment and only offers up one shoulder in a weak half-shrug. Tormund frowns but is distracted as Ghost bounds to his side, pressing his cold nose into Tormund’s hand searching for a treat. Tormund chuckles as he firmly pats Ghost on the head.

“Your beast is even bigger than the last time I saw him,” he praises before digging through his pelt coat. He pulls out a dried strip of meat and tosses it to the awaiting direwolf. Ghost plucks it out of the air and begins devouring it, jaws snapping powerfully as he eats.

It is then that Tormund notices the two guards standing at Jon’s shoulder as they eye him vigilantly. The Free Folk and the Northmen have come a long, nearly miraculous way in the last five years. But they are still a long way off from being _friends _let alone cordial.

“Who are these two?” he asks Jon as he scratches at his beard. “And why are they dressed in such odd clothing?” He nods to their iron helmets and the round shields at their backs with the Stark direwolf engraved into the metal.

Ruger, a young lad who’s not even reached his 20th name day, bristles in place at the perceived slight to their station. He steps forward with a steely glower as he fires back to Tormund, “We are members of the household guard of The King in the North. And by order of King Robb, we are here to escort Jon Snow back to Winterfell.”

Tormund raises a mocking eyebrow before leering at Jon. “Escorts, eh? Are you so high and mighty now you need these two shadows watching your every move? Do they wipe your ass for you when you take a shit?”

Jon silently groans and hangs his head. He knows where this is going… Ruger is now red in the face as and Jon worries he’s forgotten how to breathe with how flustered he appears.

“You, sir, are addressing the brother of the King in the North—“

With a tired sigh, Jon waves him off as the boy reluctantly shuts his mouth.

“Peace, Ruger,” Jon says as he places a conciliatory hand on the lad’s shoulder. He really does mean well, after all. It’s not his fault Tormund is a devious baiter.

“Tormund means no offense. _Right_, Tormund?”

His glare could cut lesser men down to size but it has little to no effect on his unruly friend.

“I don’t know,” Tormund responds with a growing grin. “You _southerners_ are so easily offended.”

Ruger and Daric both look apoplectic at the offense and are gearing up to defend the North as honor demands when Tormund breaks the tension by cackling loudly. He laughs long and hard until his sides hurt, slapping his knee with mirth. Jon only rolls his eyes at the display and waits him out. When the laughter finally dies down, Tormund gestures to the open doorway of the longhouse.

“Come!” he strolls inside, leaving Jon and his guards to follow in his wake. With a pointed nod of Jon’s head, Ghost trots away weaving through tents and barking happily as a gaggle of children chase after the direwolf, their giggles echoing around before being swept away with the wind.

Jon steps into the large, open space, blinking rapidly to adjust to the hazy darkness. Smoke fills his nostrils and the overpowering incense of burning wood consumes Jon’s head until it’s the only thing he can smell. The longhouse is composed entirely of wood and it has a large ceiling reaching upwards to the sky and that is supported by thick, wooden posts. Intricately carved into the pillars are the runes of the First Men, detailing their nearly forgotten history.

The only seating in the longhouse is the built-in benches stacked against the walls. They’re covered in sheepskins and furs to provide some comfort from the merciless wood. At the center of the longhouse, in the heart of it, is a great rectangular stone fire pit that has a blazing fire with enough heat to warm the expansive room. Hanging above them from lofty beams are herbs, venison meat, and fish, their smoky scents mixing together and lingering on the outer edges of the longhouse.

Tormund whistles to himself as he pulls two roasting chickens from the flames and breaks them apart until only the carcasses remain. He dishes legs, thighs, and breasts onto wooden plates for his fatigued guests. He then directs Daric and Ruger down onto a bench and offers them a drink.

“Sour goat’s milk,” he says with that raving grin of his that always spells trouble. “Made it myself.”

Jon has half a mind to warn the unsuspecting men about the potency of the so-called ‘milk’, but watching Ruger spit out the contents of his cup after taking a heaping gulp was simply too good to miss. Tormund only crows, slapping Ruger so hard across the back he nearly goes soaring off the bench.

“A goblet of that and you’ll be so sloshed you’ll mistake me for your mama!”

Jon and Tormund settle a few benches down from the guards and enjoy the warmth of the fire as the heat coils around them. Jon’s rear only just touches the wood of his seat when a plate is unceremoniously shoved onto his lap.

“Eat up,” Tormund orders. “You look so skinny I could snap you in half and clean out my teeth with your itty-bitty bones.”

Jon doesn’t quite know how to respond to a statement like that so he remains silent as he pulls off his leather riding gloves and sets them aside. He picks up a piece of chicken and heartily bites into it, savoring the tasty flavor. The food they’ve been eating on the road has been uniform and bland. The sumptuous chicken proves a welcome respite.

“What?” Tormund continues poking at him. “Do they not feed you at the Wall?”

Jon shrugs and keeps eating, taking a moment to swallow and respond, “Food’s not very good.”

Tormund snorts and picks up a leg, tearing into it without a care. Manners are a foreign concept to the wild man, so he has no conniptions of speaking while chewing. “Now that I believe.”

Companionable silence passes between them for a time until Jon’s appetite is satisfied and he looks to his friend.

“How are things?”

Most of the Free Folk cannot read or write in the Common Tongue and the few that know how never seem to see the need in sending Jon a raven on the ongoing developments of the settlement. Jon had put his sweat, blood, and tears into building something out of nothing and to make a home for the Free Folk. And to be cut off from it by being back at Castle Black these last four years has been its own kind of torture.

The closest thing he can equate it to with his limited experiences is that of being a father – with Ned Stark as his example. Just like a parent, he had raised something small and unwieldy until that thing had to make its own way in the world, standing on its own two feet. He couldn’t stay with the Free Folk forever. The only way true peace will ever exist between them and the North is if they do the work themselves. Jon had laid the groundwork. The rest would have to come in its own time and at its own pace.

Tormund looks positively gleeful as he relays all of the newest scandals and slanders of the thriving community. “One o’ Umber’s girls got her eyes set on a Hornfoot.”

That immediately has Jon objecting as he runs a hand through his tied-back hair. There really couldn’t be worse news than that.

“He can’t steal her,” he tells Tormund as he fights the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration. “He knows that, right? Lord Umber will go mad with rage.”

_And probably start a war,_ Jon silently thinks to himself. It had been a long and grueling battle for ensuring that while the Free Folk would continue the tradition of ‘stealing’ brides amongst each other as they had done for centuries, they would not steal any Northern women – unless, of course, said Northern women gave their permission to be stolen.

And it has happened. Intermarriages between the Free Folk and neighboring smallfolk are becoming more commonplace with every passing year. But a marriage between one of Lord Umber’s daughters and a Free Folk – _and Hornfoot at that?_ Well, Jon might as well run a sword through his heart now to avoid the impending clusterfuck that would erupt at such an ill-advised union.

Tormund – the bastard – only grins toothily as he bites into the chicken leg, juice running down his chin and into his beard.

“Try tellin’ that to the girl. She’s actin’ like she wants to be stolen.” His eyebrows waggle exaggeratedly at the insinuation.

“Of course she is,” Jon mutters. The only people who are more recalcitrant than the Greatjon are his willful daughters. Jon would know. The eldest, Maerie Umber – who was a good half a foot taller than Jon, had fostered an attraction to him over the numerous visits he had taken to Last Hearth to be hollered at by her father during that first year of the Free Folk settlement.

The fact that Jon had sworn vows to take no wife hadn’t deterred her in the slightest. If anything, it only seemed to entice the girl. The thrill of the chase and all that rubbish those minstrels sing about. It hadn’t helped that during one such visit, Tormund had let slip to her that Jon was besotted by lasses with hair kissed by fire, a color which the Lady Maerie in fact possessed. Though hers was a muddy brownish-red and nowhere near as brilliant as Ygritte’s copper tresses or as rich as Robb’s auburn curls.

Suffice it to say when Jon had finally put his foot down to stamp out the nuisance that was his strong-willed suitor, he had been given a black eye for his troubles. Lord Umber had laughed heartily at his expense. Unintentionally, it had seemed to warm the grizzled lord to Jon. A blessing in disguise, as it turned out to be. Jon could have done without the black eye. It had been so swollen he couldn’t see out of it for a week.

Tormund chortles at Jon’s dour expression as he shakes his head. “What brings you our way, little crow? I know it’s not because of ol’ Umber’s ulcer.”

The corner of Jon’s mouth briefly winds up as he picks at his food. “It as Ruger said, we are going to Winterfell.”

Tormund peers at him suspiciously. “I thought Thorne didn’t like letting you out of his sight.”

Jon frowns at the mention of Thorne and the hard truth of Tormund’s words. Thorne had sent Jon away from Castle Black likely hoping the inherent conflict between the Free Folk and the Northmen would be enough to get Jon killed in the crossfire. When that failed and Jon had earned something of a name for himself among the Northern Lords, Thorne had been quick to recall him to the Wall.

Once returned to Castle Black, Jon’s life had been a series of menial and often degrading tasks, all one after the other. Thorne despised having him near but feared the influence Jon could potentially gain when on his own. Not that Jon had ever entertained the thought of maneuvering himself into a position of authority. He wanted nothing to do with power, he never had. His short and disastrous stint as Lord Commander and the fallout of it had been proof enough that he wasn’t meant to be a leader of men.

Jon swallows and forces himself to say that words he’s been coming to terms with the entire journey thus far.

“I am no longer a brother of the Night’s Watch.”

They taste like ash on Jon’s tongue but he pushes them out all the same.

Tormund’s blue eyes narrow in confusion as he stares at Jon. “I thought you were sworn to be a sad, cock-less crow for all your days.”

He trails off uncertainly before the gears grind to a halt in his head. Suddenly, he looks as menacing as a bear as he growls out angrily, _“Did those black fuckers try and kill you again—“_

“No!” Jon hisses, sharply cutting off Tormund. His head whips around as he urgently glances over his shoulder to see if Daric and Ruger had heard Tormund’s heated words. Luckily, the two seem unaware as they talk quietly to each other, still eating and drinking. Jon exhales in relief before turning back to Tormund. 

“No, it’s not like that,” Jon feebly explains. “I have been pardoned by my brother.”

“Pardoned?” Tormund inquires with his bushy brows furrowed together like two orange caterpillars.

“He’s released me from my vows and ordered me back to Winterfell,” Jon spells out in simpler terms.

Tormund continues to stare at him. “He can do that?”

Jon shrugs as he looks down at his plate of food. He no longer feels hungry and drops it down onto the bench with a soft thud.

“He’s a king. He can do whatever he wants.”

“Hmm,” Tormund grunts to himself as he rubs his chin. “I met your brother once. He was alright, for a kneeler.”

It takes everything in Jon not to scowl as his hands curl into fists at his side. Yes, he is _very_ well aware of the fact that Tormund has seen Robb while Jon hasn’t. Jon spent a year at the Wildling settlement and only three moons after he returned to the Wall did Robb decide to embark on a diplomatic visit to the camp.

All the hard work and toil Jon had put into stopping the Free Folk and Northmen from simply slaughtering one another and he wasn’t even there to present the fruits of his labor to Robb. He wasn’t there to witness the awe on his brother’s face when he saw a giant or a mammoth for the first time. And even to this day, he still hates Thorne for it, irrational as it is.

Robb had planned to come to the Wall to visit Castle Black and ascertain the various needs of the declining Night’s Watch. Jon had anxiously awaited his arrival only for a raven to be sent citing that urgent business had demanded Robb’s hasty return to Winterfell. Jon had been ready to curse the Gods for that cruelty. To be so close but to still miss each other…

The only relief Jon had been awarded was that in Robb’s place came Rickon. At 12, he had been bigger and taller than the little boy of Jon’s yearning memories. Rickon had always adored Jon without discrimination. When Jon had left Winterfell Rickon had been too young to understand the concept of a bastard, though he had known Jon wasn’t Lady Stark’s son. To Rickon, Jon was his brother. Not his _half_-brother or his _bastard_ brother. Jon was Jon.

And seeing his baby brother at the Wall had been like an exquisite dream to Jon. A dream he had never wanted to wake from. The two weeks Rickon stayed there were easily the best two weeks Jon had experienced since departing Winterfell. Jon had taken him beyond the Wall, into the real North. Their horses had galloped across snowy canyons and unending woods. Ghost and Shaggydog had howled with joy as they ran together, pack through and through.

“Being a kneeler isn’t too bad,” Jon mumbles out between gritted teeth. Protective of Robb even when he has no right to be.

“Is that what you’ll do when you go to that big ol’ castle of yours?” Tormund asks with flashing eyes as he peers deliberately at Jon. “Kneel to your brother?”

“My brother is my king,” Jon answers automatically.

Robb had always been Jon’s king from the moment he had been crowned. Damn the rules that state that the Night Watch doesn’t concern itself with the affairs of the realms of men. Robb had been his king even when Stannis Baratheon had come to the Wall with his great horde of soldiers to aid against the invasion of the Free Folk. Robb would be Jon’s king until the day he died.

Tormund looks at Jon for a long moment before solemnly saying, “I told you before, Jon Snow. You’ve spent too much time with us Free Folk. It made you less of a crow when you returned to Castle Black and you know what happened because of it.”

Jon winces as he feels the icy caress of phantom pains wind across his chest, reminding him of that wretched night so long ago where everything had gone so very wrong. 

Tormund is kind enough to ignore Jon’s flinch as he continues, “I wonder what your brother will do when he finds out it’s made you less of a kneeler too.”

Jon’s head snaps up.

“Robb would never hurt me,” he defensively protests. Though he knows that he is speaking of the boy Robb used to be. The boy who had been Jon’s brother and closest friend and greatest rival. The boy who had been his first love. Jon is brutally protective of that boy who looms so large in his recollections.

But, as much as it guts him, he doesn’t know who Robb is as a man. He doesn’t know who Robb is as a king. Crowns change people. They have to for their weight is a tremendous burden to bear. How has it changed Robb?

“Then what does he want with you after all this time?” Tormund counters. 

Jon doesn’t know. He’s spent the journey so far wondering that very thing and he’s no closer to discovering an answer. It’s maddening and Jon doesn’t know how he will survive the remaining weeks on the road where all he can do is contemplate that blasted question.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” he offers up instead. He doesn’t wish to talk about this any longer and Tormund must pick up on that because he leans closer to Jon and claps his shoulder, giving him a rough, friendly shake.

“Come on, little crow,” he says with a growing grin. “Let’s get drunk!”

It’s the best thing Jon’s heard all day.

∞ ∞ ∞

It’s when they’re only a day’s ride from Winterfell that they are met with an unexpected surprise. Jon’s been enraptured with the ever-changing landscape as it has morphed from the rocky and barren wasteland of Castle Black into the achingly familiar fields and forests of Jon’s youth. These are the lands he grew up in, where he had hunted and explored under the watchful eyes of his father.

He knows most outsiders would think the North a harsh and unforgiving place with its rugged terrain, its thick woodlands with trees so ancient not even the sun can penetrate through their leafy canopies and its engulfing mists and snowstorms that occur even at the height of summer. Its people are as grim and severe as the landscape.

But to Jon, it’s the most beautiful place he has ever known. The North is an intrinsic part of him. He has never had a desire to be anywhere else. And the closer they’ve traveled to Winterfell, the more pronounced that emotion has become until he can almost feel it thrumming through his bloodstream, pulsing with every beat of his heart.

_Home._

He’s going home. He’s known it all along but clutching Robb’s proclamation at Castle Black as the Wall towered over him, casting him in its shadow, it had been easy to believe it all some kind of fantasy. Even as they have journeyed south on the Kingsroad, Jon has doggedly kept his guard up, not wanting to put his hope in such a frail thing in case it was taken from him as so many other things in this world had already been.

But they’re so close now. Tomorrow, they will crest a hill and Jon will see Winterfell for the first time in ten, long years. He will see the keep that had housed him. He will see the siblings he’s missed like a lost limb.

He will see Robb.

His stomach drops at the thought of Robb, of the brother and king who is more of a shifting puzzle to Jon than ever. He still has no idea why his brother has called him back to Winterfell or what he wants with Jon. He refuses to think of Sam’s hesitantly optimistic words.

_Maybe he misses you and your relationship._

No. That cannot be it. Robb is a husband and father and what he and Jon shared as young boys cannot come to pass again. They are…the most _magnificent_ memories, more precious than gemstones or gold. Jon will treasure them always. But they are in the past.

He will need to accept that if he hopes to find any peace in calling Winterfell home once again.

“Hold!” Daric calls out from ahead of Jon, jogging him from his thoughts. He looks forward, trying to see what’s captured the guard’s attention. Far ahead of them stands a solitary figure in the middle of the road. Jon nudges his horse until it stands beside Daric’s and sets his eyes on the bleary form of a person.

From here, all he can see are the muted browns and blues of clothing and—

Jon’s eyes widen and without a word to the men with him, he spurs his horse into action and takes off madly down the Kingsroad. He ignores the loud protests of Daric and Ruger behind him but his focus is solely on moving forward, on reaching that figure he has missed so dearly.

When he’s close enough, he catapults off his horse and lets his feet carry him the rest of the way. He’s almost there. He can almost _touch_ her…

Her smile is wide and utterly radiant as she meets him halfway, leaping into his arms without fear of him not catching her. He’s always caught her. He catches her now, crushing her to him as he sweeps her off her feet and holds her close, spinning the two of them around.

_Arya._

His little sister. His favorite sibling. The one person who had been as much of an outsider as he always was. The sibling who had looked like him, with their dark hair and Stark eyes.

_Gods,_ he’s missed her.

The overwhelming emotions are too strong in him and he’s laughing and choking back tears as he hugs her. She’s no better as she squeezes him tightly, her nose burrowing into his neck to hide her sniffles.

He never wants to let her go but eventually, he does, setting her back down on her feet and finally taking a good look at her. She’s older, a little taller, and grown into her beauty but Jon can still see wistful traces of the rambunctious girl who only ever wanted to be one of the boys.

Her eyes gleam impishly even as she blinks back tears. Jon’s trembling hand settles on her cheek, gently wiping the moisture away. She breathes deeply as she stares unbelievingly into his eyes.

“You used to be taller,” she breathlessly states and the laugh that rumbles out of Jon’s chest is warm as he shakes his head, still in disbelief that she is standing in front of him, healthy and whole. 

He takes in her appearance, making note of everything about her. She’s not dressed like a Northern lady but is in a brown leather jerkin and a blue padded skirt over her trousers. It reminds him of the clothes their father often wore, feminine though her version is. And as a girl, she had hated having long hair and often wanted it cropped short, but now it reaches past her shoulders and is loosely tied together in a single braid.

He starts in surprise at what he sees hanging off her hip. “You still have it?” he asks incredulously, surprised and secretly moved beyond belief that it hadn’t been lost in all that chaos she had encountered.

With a quivering smile, she removes Needle from its scabbard and holds it up for Jon to examine. It looks just as it did the day he gave it to her, offering her the advice that had seemed so profound when he had uttered it.

_Stick ‘em with the pointy end._

If only he had known then that fighting was so much more than that. Perhaps he could have prepared both of them better for what was to come.

“Have you ever used it?” he slowly asks as he runs his gloved fingers over the sharp blade. She has taken such good care of it that it nearly shines under the pale, afternoon sun.

The smile slips off her face and her eyes momentarily harden. “Once or twice,” she tells him neutrally but he sees the way she bites her bottom lip as if afraid that he would judge her. He’s the last person who could ever judge her.

But still he frowns and a part of him despairs that she ever had to use it but most of him is glad that she had it to protect herself. That Jon had done at least one thing right by giving it to her. He hadn’t been there to defend her but Needle had been. Needle had kept her safe and for that, he would always be grateful.

He doesn’t say anything – there’s nothing he can say, but only firmly holds her gaze and nods once in understanding. The uncertainty wipes away clean from her face as she sheathes her sword and her eyes widen in excitement as she takes notice of the wolf pommel and ruby-red eyes of Longclaw.

With a chuckle, he pulls the sword out and offers it to her, watching as she holds it reverently, her eyes taking in every line of the metal.

“Valyrian steel,” she murmurs in awe as she tests the weight of the blade.

“Jealous?” Jon teases and his grin grows as she snorts and shakes her head.

“Too heavy for me.”

She gives him back the sword and he puts it away as Daric and Ruger ride up to them.

“Princess Arya,” Daric greets with a respectful bow of his head. “Whatever are you doing here?”

“Princess Arya?” Jon playfully repeats. Obviously, with Robb being a king it makes sense for the others to be princes and princesses, but hearing his sister be called such a fanciful title has a smile threatening to split his face. “I feel like I should bow.”

“I’ll punch you in your pretty face if you do,” she levelly warns him without batting an eye. She turns her gaze to Daric. “The same goes to you, Daric.”

He smirks. “I’ll take it as a compliment that you think my face pretty, my lady.”

Arya rolls her eyes and then the new group of four moves off the road, ready to call it a day. Their horses join Arya’s in grazing and Daric and Ruger begin setting up camp. Jon moves to help but Arya grabs his arm and tugs him into the woods, chattering a mile a minute of everything he’s missed. He listens aptly, hanging off every word of their family.

_Bran’s fostering in Greywater Watch_, she informs him with a smile. _He’s betrothed to Lord Reed’s daughter, Meera. They’ll be married soon in Winterfell. You’d like her. She knows how to fight with a spear. Robb’s rebuilt Moat Cailin, they’ll be its Lord and Lady._

The news fills him with a curling joy. When Bran woke from his long sleep, he had to give up his dreams of knighthood due to his bad legs. Jon had worried about Bran marrying for it would take a rare and sublime woman to find a cripple a suitable match, no matter his family pedigree. It doesn’t surprise him that such a lady is the daughter of their father’s dearest friend, Howland Reed.

Of Rickon – _Robb is planning to give him Queenscrown when he comes of age, up there with all your wildlings. Good thing, because Rickon is practically a wildling himself nowadays._

Jon knows that Arya speaks truly. During the war, Rickon had spent several years in hiding on the remote island of Skagos. It had hardened him, stripping away the sweet little boy and shaping him into a wild and headstrong young man who was quick to anger.

The wolf’s blood runs rampant in him, just as it did in their uncle Brandon. Jon had discerned that for himself during Rickon’s stay at Castle Black. Queenscrown would be good for him. He was just as much a wanderer as the Free Folk.

And Arya? The life of a proper lady with a keep and children of her own was not the life for her. “I’m going to be captain of Robb’s Kingsguard one day,” she tells him confidently. Jon expected nothing less of her.

“Does Robb know that?” he asks as his lips quirk up into a small grin. Arya huffs out a breath and bats away a stray branch as she keeps pulling on his sleeve, just as she had done when they were children.

“He’s given up trying to stop me years ago.”

Jon hums in assent. His sister is as forceful as a raging storm. He’s not surprised in the slightest that she wore down Robb until she got her way.

“And what of Sansa?” They haven’t yet spoken of the sibling who had been the most distant to both Jon and Arya when they were young. “She is married to Willas Tyrell, is she not?”

From all the accounts he’s heard, this second marriage is far more pleasing than her first to Tyrion Lannister.

“They call her the Winter Rose of Highgarden,” Arya supplies him with a roll of her eyes, clearly finding such proclamations frivolous and silly. But then again, Arya’s never been a romantic soul. No, that was always their Sansa. “A pale, Northern flower blooming in the South.”

Jon smiles. He’s happy to hear such auspicious tidings. Distance aside, he has always wanted the best for Sansa, just as he does for all his siblings. He can only hazard a guess to the hardships she faced in King’s Landing as the unsuspecting pawn of the Lannisters. It eases his heart to know that her life is now blissful in the Reach as the future Lady of Highgarden.

“That sounds like something out of a song. Sansa must enjoy that.”

Arya pauses as she mindfully mulls over Jon’s words. She shrugs before delicately saying, “she’s not much one for pretty songs and knightly tales of chivalry anymore.”

There’s a weight to what she’s said and Jon is reminded that none of them are the carefree children they used to be. When they had all left Winterfell their futures had been so full of promise, but the cruelties of the world had come for them and their family. Jon doesn’t know everything his siblings have weathered in the years they were apart, but he’s wise enough to know that the trauma still lingers in them as it does in him. It stays still and silent for so long before coming for you when you least expect it, inflicting damage so hard to undo.

“Is he good to her?”

It’s important to him that Sansa is treated well and that her husband cherishes her above all others.

“He’s gentle with her,” Arya quickly reassures him, squeezing the hand she claimed from him. “She needed that…after Joffrey.”

A familiar yet dull ache of anger stabs at him at the thought of that false king who had wrought so much destruction on the Stark family. Once, that anger had been as all-consuming and destructive as dragon fire as it scorched through him when he had learned what that bastard had done to their father. When they had received the raven at Castle Black detailing his death by poison at his own wedding, Jon’s only thought had been that he wished it had lasted longer. He had wanted the bastard to suffer.

“Good,” he curtly says after a long moment. “I’m glad.”

Arya brings them to a stop at a rocky bluff bordering a flowing stream as broken shafts of sunlight filter in from the leafy treetops above. The soothing trickle of water rushing over smooth stones is as pleasing to the ear as the gentle playing of a flute. It’s calm and peaceful, which makes Arya’s mischievous smirk all the more alarming.

“People say you’re the greatest swordsman in the North,” she announces nonchalantly though he knows she’s goading him, he can read it in the taunting slope of her eyebrows.

Jon huffs out a breath as he rests his hands on his hips.

“Baseless rumors.” As are many things that people say about him.

Arya’s lips curl into a playful grin. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

Sparring would be a pleasing way to spend the afternoon. Daric and Ruger had proven willing partners at the beginning of their trek, though both had cried off going against him after receiving one too many bruises from their bouts. These last two weeks, Jon had been itching for a good round against a competent opponent. He just hadn’t expected his sister to step up as one. 

“I won’t go easy on you,” he warns. Arya’s grin, if anything, only grows larger like she’s in on some kind of secret joke and doesn’t feel the need to share with him.

“Good,” she says with a decisive nod of her head. “Neither will I.”

And that’s that.

Jon shucks off his black cloak and Arya removes the leather sleeves of her jerkin, exposing the linen of the tunic beneath. She’s unsheathed Needle and is elegantly slashing it in arcs through the air as she warms up.

“You can’t fight with Needle,” Jon tells her as he pulls out Longclaw. “It’s too small and could break.”

“Don’t worry,” she reassures him though it feels more like mocking to him. “I won’t cut your pretty face.”

Jon’s eyes narrow at the ribbing that only a sibling can get away with. It was taunting like that that had gotten Jon and Robb into more than their fair share of wrestling matches when they were boys. The two stand only a few paces apart, facing each other head-on.

“Shall we dance?” Arya asks with a flick of Needle, the thin blade singing as it cuts through the air.

“After you,” Jon replies as his grip tightens around Longclaw.

There’s a beat as the two wait the other out, seeing who will make the first move. Then it’s shattered as Arya lunges and the fun truly begins.

Jon’s never been the biggest or the strongest, his true power has always laid with his speed. He’s quick on his feet and it’s what has kept him alive in all the major battles of his life thus far. He expects his quickness to be a boon for him now. What he hadn’t anticipated is that Arya’s even faster.

She moves like water, weaving and turning gracefully at an almost mystifying speed. He now knows why she promised she wouldn’t cut him for if she so desired she could stab a hundred little holes in him before he could do a thing about it. The only noise that erupts through the forest clearing is the resounding clashes of their two swords.

Jon brings blow after blow down upon her but she deflects them with ease, spinning on the balls of her feet as she does so. She lands a hit on him, Needle slapping his hand with the flat side of the blade. He scowls and she smirks at him.

The dance begins again and this time when Jon sees an opening he throws himself into it. He brings up his leg and gives a powerful kick as his boot collides with her chest. Arya goes flying back, landing heavily on the ground as she pants for air.

The single moment of vindication is replaced by sickening horror at what he’s just done to his own sister.

_Brute, _Lady Stark’s voice hisses in his ear. There’s no better word for it. What kind of man – who’s bigger and stronger than his opponent – treats his own sister in such a deplorable fashion?

“Arya—“

His voice is strangled as he stands above her. He’s ready to get down on his knees and beg forgiveness – anything to wipe away the pained expression on her face as she gapes up at him.

He’s not prepared for what happens next.

With a grunt and a twist, Arya flips herself back onto her feet, the tip of Needle artfully poised right at his bobbing Adam’s apple.

“Surprised?” she asks him as easily as if they were discussing the weather. Jon’s dumbstruck as he stares at her.

“Very,” he breathlessly responds as he tries to make sense of what’s just occurred. Arya’s skills are beyond anything he can comprehend.

“I told you I wouldn’t go easy on you,” she reminds him, that devilish gleam back in her grey eyes.

“So you did,” he answers. She lowers Needle and steps back, twirling the slender sword in her hand.

“Again?” she asks with a challenging tilt to her voice, clearly thinking he’s had enough. But now he knows exactly what he’s up against and the last thing he plans on doing in stepping down against such a lively foe. This is the most alive he’s felt in months, he won’t let the opportunity slip through his fingers.

“Again.”

And so it continues until Jon’s sweated through the shirt under his jerkin and his blows grow weary and sluggish. Arya’s hair is a mess and is falling out of her braid and both siblings are red in the face by the time they call it quits.

“If you keep fighting like that,” he long-windedly remarks as he wipes his brow. “You’ll be the greatest captain of any Kingsguard.” He means it sincerely. Arya is a force to be reckoned with. She fights in a way he’s never seen before and he’s reminded that for a time in King’s Landing she had ‘dancing’ classes with a Braavosi instructor who had clearly known his stuff.

Arya is positively beaming as she turns to him, at heart still the little girl seeking her favorite brother’s approval. “If it makes you feel any better, you put up more of a challenge than most.”

Jon barks out a sharp laugh through the rapid rising and falling of his chest. “Surprisingly enough, it does.”

He places his hands on his hips as he tries taking in deep breaths to calm his stuttering heart. His shoulders slump in exhaustion as he tilts his face up to the sun, closing his eyes and letting the warmth fall down upon him.

“You look tired.”

In the blink of an eye Arya’s somehow gotten right in front of him, forcing Jon to startle in surprise at her sudden appearance.

Jon weakly smiles as he offers up a shrug. “I have been on the road these last three weeks. It’s enough to make anyone dream of a soft bed. I reckon I can’t smell too good either.”

Arya shakes her head and looks at him with her steady eyes. A wistful frown crosses her face as she peers closely at him and he thinks that she can see all the burdens and troubles he’s been carrying these last ten years. All the things he doesn’t want her to see. For how can he be the big brother she’s envisioning when he’s made such a muck of things?

“No,” she gravely says. “It’s the Wall. It’s aged you.”

Jon sags even further, his body threatening to collapse in on itself. He feels utterly spent like he could lay down here and never move again. And it’s more than just the vigorous sparring against Arya. He’s felt this way for a long time. 

But he doesn’t tell her that as he reaches up and cups the back of her neck, his thumb rubbing idle circles into her skin. “It’s nothing for you to worry about, little sister.”

_Little sister._

He must have thought those words thousands of times during his years at the Wall. Memory after glorious memory would play in his head of them playing together, conspiring together, and pulling pranks together. Thinking of her never failed to bring a smile to his often sullen face. She was the bright spot in his bleak existence.

And now? Saying those splendid words aloud? It’s like a spell’s been cast over him, he just wants to keep saying them. _Littlesisterlittlesisterlittlesister…_

He’s standing here with his little sister and Winterfell is only a day away from them. She’s flesh and blood and so very alive. She’s survived the very nightmares he’s had of her, lost and alone and without a friend in the world. She found her way home.

“Where did you go after King’s Landing?” he quietly asks as his hand drops down to her shoulder to be a reassuring tether. “Your letters never said.”

All he knows is that she found her way to the Twins as Robb and Lady Stark were there for Edmure Tully’s wedding. Surprisingly enough, she had been in the company of Joffrey’s dog, the Hound.

The two years she spent in hiding are a mystery to him. He’s nearly tortured himself thinking of what she could have been subjected to. But now, as he stands with her, he wants the truth. Clearly, she was strong enough to face any foe who meant her harm.

Arya bites her bottom lip as she glances down at her boots, scuffing the toe of them into the uneven ground.

“I was in the company of a Night’s Watch brother, pretending to be one of his recruits. His name was Yoren. Did you know him?”

Jon’s eyebrows furrow together in surprise at her declaration. “Only a little. He went south for convicts and criminals and never returned. It was assumed he ran into foul play somewhere along the way. That or he deserted. But he didn’t seem the type; too loyal to the Watch.”

She nods in empty confirmation. “It was the Lannisters. They came upon us in the night and he thought they were looking for me. He stood up to them and they killed him without even thinking twice about it.”

Her small hand tightens into a fist and her lips thin angrily as she looks at him with a blaze burning in her eyes.

“I wanted to kill them all but I didn’t have Needle and I was too young and little to be a threat back then.”

“You’re _still_ young and little and you’re plenty of a threat now,” he tells her with a teasing glint of his eyes and he chuckles lowly as she lightly punches his shoulder. But the lively gleam of her eyes fades away as her face turns contemplative.

“Yoren had planned to take me to Robb in the Riverlands or even north to Winterfell where there was no fighting. But all I wanted was to follow him to the Wall so I could be with you.”

Her words sink like stones into the pit of Jon’s stomach. His little sister, his dearest Arya, at Castle Black with every dreg of society imaginable? He wouldn’t have stood for it. He would have marched her back to Winterfell himself even if it branded him a deserter.

“The Wall would have been no place for you,” he tells her sternly and_, gods,_ he sounds just like their father.

“It doesn’t seem like it was a place for you either,” Arya retorts quick as a whip and landing just as devastating a blow. Jon deflates as if punctured by her sharp Needle and lets his hand fall away from her.

“No,” he hollowly agrees. “I guess it wasn’t.”

Her face flashes guiltily and she shakes her head so adamantly it looks like it might roll off her shoulders. “No-no-no. Shit. I didn’t mean that the way it came out.”

“Then what did you mean?” he asks frankly. He and Arya have always been honest with each other, never ones to hedge around the other’s feelings.

“I just mean…_ugh,_ I—“

She blows out an annoyed breath before deciding that if she can’t tell him what she means then she’ll show him. She takes a step forward, her arms winding around his waist as she hugs him. She’s still short enough that the top of her head fits snugly under his chin as she nuzzles into his chest, holding onto him tightly. He reciprocates the embrace without hesitation, his eyes closing in contentment as they stand there locked together.

“All I meant was,” she whispers into his jerkin. “Is that you deserved more than freezing your life away at the Wall.”

He doesn’t feel frozen now. In fact, Arya’s hug has given him enough lifesaving warmth circulating through his tired bones that he could withstand a hundred winters. He doesn’t know how long they stand there clinging to each other when Arya finally pulls back and glances up at him, her eyes hesitant and her shoulders taut.

“Do you love me?” she asks without preamble, cutting right to the quick. Jon’s so taken off guard that a laugh startles out of him.

“What? Are you joking?”

“No.” Her chin juts out stubbornly as she holds her head high. “I mean it. Do you love me?”

“Of course I do. You’re my sister.”

She’s scaring him; the way she’s talking, how she looks. It has him on edge as he squeezes her shoulders reflexively. He wishes Longclaw was back in his grip. He’d rather kill a hundred men than feel this unmoored by the person he’s always loved honestly and unabashedly.

“And you’ll always love me?” she continues intractably. “No matter what?”

“No matter what,” Jon promises, feeling the telltale sign of unease work its way up his spine. “Arya, what’s going on?”

She pushes out of his embrace and takes several steps back, needing space as she begins pacing in a tight circle, her movements as lithe and deadly precise as a caged shadowcat, ready to lash out if properly provoked. Her hand slips into the pocket of her skirt and she pulls something out of it, fisting it in her hand as she moves, holding to it like a lifeline.

“I made a list,” she tells him, voice strained with an emotion he cannot name.

“What kind of list?” he inquires slowly, not seeing where this conversation is ultimately leading. She pauses in the middle of a step before inclining her head towards him, staring right into his eyes before she speaks.

“A list of people I wanted to kill.”

The only sound between the two of them is the ever-present trickle of the stream as it curves through the thicket of woods.

“Who was on this list?” Jon asks when the silence has stretched on for far too long.

“Joffrey. Cersei. Ilyn Payne. Meryn Trant. And others. People who hurt those that I cared about. People who hurt _our_ family.”

She doesn’t look apologetic; in fact, she looks as if she’s daring him to tell her that she was wrong for ever thinking such dark, poisonous thoughts. But how can he? He understands revenge just as intimately as she does. It is an abominable disease that hasn’t spared him its decaying foulness in his years of living.

He can still vividly recall receiving the raven at Castle Black that bore the news of their father’s death. And the only thing that had pulsed through his body was a seething fixation for revenge. It didn’t matter that he had sworn his vows and that the affairs of the realms of men were no longer his concern.

They had killed his father, the best man he ever had the privilege of knowing. Nothing in the world could satisfy the enormous cavity that had been ripped into his chest at losing Ned Stark. And all he had wanted – in that moment, in the days and weeks to follow – was to hurt those treacherous fuckers just as much as they had hurt him.

He thinks he understands far more than Arya could ever know.

“And did you?” he asks her. “Did you kill anyone on your…_list?”_

She’s still defiant but she won’t look him in the eye as her shoulders hunch up to her ears.

“A few,” she reveals tightly with a clenched jaw as she continues avoiding his gaze. “First was a man named Polliver. He was a Lannister soldier who was a part of the raid on Yoren and his recruits. He killed a friend of mine and he took Needle from me.”

Her hand reaches for the hilt of Needle, as if afraid that it wasn’t there. That maybe she had never reclaimed it and it was still the toy of a heartless murderer. She only looks reassured once she feels its solid weight resting on her hip.

“I plunged Needle into his neck. It was slow and I made him suffer,” she tells him as passively as one discusses what they had eaten for dinner the night before.

“Then there was Rorge. He was one of the criminals Yoren was bringing to the Wall. He would have been your brother if we had made it. Though I wonder, could you stomach being brothers with a man who threatened to rape and kill me?”

Ashamed, Jon’s eyes flit to the ground. If this Rorge had made it to Castle Black and had taken his vows then, yes, Jon would have called him a brother. If he had known, he would have called him brother to his face and then, in the dark of night, he’d have Ghost tear out his throat.

Is it any kinder than what his brothers had planned for him? No. Does that make him as unforgivable as them? Perhaps, but Jon doesn’t have room in his heart for mercy when someone threatens his little sister.

“I also killed him with Needle,” Arya continues on, ignorant of Jon’s inner turmoil as she plows through her account. “I wasn’t going to because I didn’t know his name and you couldn’t be on my list without a name. But as he was lying there he told me it. _Rorge._ So I killed him. I stabbed him in the chest.

“And the last one I didn’t kill myself but he died because of me. They called him the Tickler. He was the main torturer at Harrenhal where I was held as a prisoner for a time. He fell from a very great height and died. I imagine it was a very painful way to go.”

She stops before nibbling on her lip thoughtfully. “The Hound was also on my list for killing Mycah, the butcher’s son. I had every intention of paying him back in kind, but as we traveled to the Twins together we came to…an understanding of sorts. So I scratched him off my list.”

She breathes deeply and relaxes as if revealing these deeds has swept the strain of them off her tender shoulders. But she looks so like the little girl he always adored most as she struggles to meet his gaze.

“D-Do…do you still love me?”

“Arya—“

He painfully strangles out but his voice refuses to work and his throat constricts as he fights for composure.

_"Of course_ I still love you.” He says it because it’s the truth. He can’t imagine a world where he doesn’t love her. “There’s nothing you could ever do that would make me stop. Do you understand? _Nothing.”_

“And you don’t think less of me?” she pointedly asks as she scrubs at her eyes, refusing to shed the tears that have built up.

“No,” he answers instantly and definitively. “You killed evil, vile men. The world’s a better place without them in it. You did what you had to do to survive. That’s what’s important, Arya. You _survived.”_

He opens his arms as much to comfort him as it was to comfort her. “Come here.”

She doesn’t even hesitate before she’s vaulting back in them. This embrace is harder than the one they only shared minutes ago, even if it feels like a lifetime. He has one arm locked around her and the other cupping the back of her head. He puts everything he has into this hug to show her that no matter what she’s done or what she will do she’ll always be his little sister, his Arya Underfoot.

When they finally release each other, Jon takes notice of the item she had been holding so possessively throughout their talk.

“What’s this?” he curiously asks as she hands it over to him without prompting. It’s a coin, aged and weathered. He flips it over to one side, taking note of the written words engraved into it.

_Valar morghulis. Valar dohaeris._

He doesn’t understand the language but he’s spent enough time with Sam to guess that it’s High Valyrian. This easily identifies the coin as Braavosi.

“Where did you get this?”

It wouldn’t be odd to find such a coin in a place like White Harbor where trade with the Free Cities is common and all manners of coins, trinkets, and goods make their way on to Northern shores day in and day out.

But for a girl of Winterfell to claim ownership of it strikes Jon as unlikely. There’s a story behind this coin, he knows it. And from the way Arya’s lips quirk up, she knows it as well.

“A friend,” she answers succinctly, not giving anything away.

“A friend?” Jon repeats as he runs his finger over the currency. “Who?”

“No one,” Arya says mysteriously and again she looks rather amused, in on a jape that only she’s privy to.

Jon nods, letting it go as he glances down at the coin. “Planning on going to Braavos with it?” He aims for a joking tone but a part of him is worried that she’s headed for faraway lands. He’s only just been restored to her. He doesn’t want her to go somewhere he cannot follow.

Robb had said that to him, the night before he left for Castle Black. Was this how he had felt then? The suffocating fear that was so poignant you could nearly choke on it?

Arya’s always had an adventurous spirit, just like Bran, and unlike Bran, she has no disability stopping her. What really could keep her here if she wanted to go?

“Once, I thought so,” she confesses pensively. She raises her head and looks him dead in the eye. “But no more. My place is here, in the North. Now it’s…simply a good luck charm, of sorts.”

Jon will never say how relieved he is as he wordlessly gives it back to her and she slips it back into her hiding spot. She turns back to him and her smile is simply luminous as she graces him with it.

“I’m so glad you’re here. Honestly, Robb should have called you home years ago.”

_Robb._

“Speaking of that,” Jon awkwardly begins as he runs a hand through his hair. “Do you have any idea why he’s done this? It is most…_irregular.”_

That was putting it mildly. _Batshit crazy_ is how Jon has termed it whenever he’s thought about it these last three weeks. And all he’s had is time to think about it. He thinks about it when riding his palfrey. He thinks about it during his shift keeping watch at night. Hells, he’s even thought about it when sleeping. It’s invaded every last inch of him until it’s a steady rhythm beating through his body.

_Robb Robb Robb Robb_

And tomorrow he’s going to see him for the first time in ten years and he can honestly say that he doesn’t know how he feels about their impending reunion. And that drives him mad.

Arya is completely immune to his anxiety as she lightly shrugs, not aware of Jon’s concerns.

“All he said was that it was time for you to come home, which it _is._ But he hasn’t explained himself, kings rarely do.”

Jon can only nod in agreement. He hasn’t spent much time with kings, other than with the ultimately false king Stannis Baratheon, but it does sound like a rather kingly thing to do. Why should Robb explain himself? He is a king and his word is law. So very different than the boy he had used to be. 

“No. No, they do not,” he mutters before looking down at his sister and smiling slightly. He musses up her hair as he did when they were young and laughs when she squawks in displeasure.

“Come,” he tells her as he pulls away and picks up his cloak, batting away stray twigs and dirt. “We should see if Daric and Ruger have any need of us.”

That night finds the four companions seated cozily around a warm campfire. Their bellies are full of fresh rabbit and their spirits are merry from a waterskin of wine that Arya has brought with her. It’s passed between them as easily as the stories they share. There is an undercurrent of excitement swimming beneath the surface of their words.

They are so very close to Winterfell. Its near proximity is a siren song calling out to Jon as its melody buzzes along his skin, the fine hairs nearly standing up on end. Daric and Ruger seem equally eager at the prospect of returning home for they have been on the road for six grueling weeks, tasked with collecting Jon and bringing him back. 

“Come on, Ruger,” Arya laughingly cajoles from next to Jon. She’s tucked into his side with his cloak settled over them both and lying at their feet is a relaxed Ghost. “Give us a song.”

“You can sing?” Jon asks in surprise as he takes a sip of the wine. The fruity taste settles pleasantly over his tongue as he licks his lips.

“Aye, he can sing,” Daric good-naturedly calls out from across the fire. “He has the prettiest voice in Winterfell; makes the maidens weep with every tune.”

“Ruger, you’ve been holding out on me,” Jon jokingly scolds as he passes the canteen to Arya.

Ruger’s a good lad, young that he is. He’s been eager to prove himself to Jon along their journey but he makes for good company. His long, wispy blond hair is pulled back into a ponytail and unlike most Northmen, he prefers his face clean-shaven and completely bereft of a beard.

The boy flushes at being the center of attention and shakes his head. “I couldn’t possibly—“

“Sing! Sing! Sing!” Arya and Daric chant until Ruger has no choice but to give in to their loud demands. He sits up straight on his log, clears his throat, and slowly beings to sing in the clearest and most lovely tenor Jon has ever heard.

_"High in the halls of the kings who are gone, Jenny would dance with her ghosts. The ones she had lost and the ones she had found and the ones who had loved her the most.”_

The three listeners sit in rapt silence as the hauntingly beautiful song winds around the crackling fire and through the rustling trees.

_“The ones who'd been gone for so very long she couldn't remember their names. They spun her around on the damp, old stones, spun away all her sorrow and pain.”_

Ruger’s expression is dreamy as he serenades them in a mournful tone.

_“And she never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave. Never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave.”_

It’s that harmony that stays with Jon as he drifts to sleep long after all the wine’s been drunk and Ruger’s sang so many tunes. He’s flat on his back on the forest floor floating between consciousnesses, his body light and relaxed.

He’s nowhere and everywhere, his limbs intact yet distant from him. The darkness that surrounds him is hypnotic, wrapping around him as surely as one of Arya’s hugs. There’s an inviting warmth calling to him, begging him to just sink into it and let it take him away. And he feels…he feels content for the first time in a long time.

_Jon,_ Robb’s husky voice whispers into his ear, tickling the sensitive skin there. Jon sleepily squirms as the tickling sensations trails down his ear to his neck like little kisses being pressed into his skin. A stirring heat blossoms in his gut and travels over the expanse of his body as he sighs softly. Long, nimble fingers feel as if they’re tracing over his chest, playing with his tunic as they softly caress him. If he moved he could just—

He startles awake and lands quite forcibly back in reality. He’s next to the fire on his bedroll, his head resting on his saddlebag which serves as a makeshift – if slightly lumpy – pillow. Arya’s curled up into a ball beside him, squished between him and Ghost who’s halfway on top of her. She shifts at his sudden movement but relaxes back into her slumber, nuzzling into Ghost’s fur.

Daric’s snoring and from where Jon’s lying he can see Ruger leaning against a tree with his back to them as he takes the first watch of the night. Jon blows out a harsh breath, the remnant of his _dream _coming back to him in hazy pieces. 

Gods, he’s such a mess.

He knows now sleep will elude him and he cannot afford to have another illusion such as the one that had nearly turned his body to mush. So he settles down, crossing his arms behind his head as he stares up at the brilliant display above him. Stars, more numerous than he can count, are scattered across the inky sky, sparkling like rare diamonds. His eyes trace over the celestial beings as he makes out various constellations; such as the pouncing Shadowcat and the Stallion galloping across the cosmos.

He should find comfort in the stars; he always had as a child. But, alas, he cannot, for the stars are speaking to him and he can only hear one thing repeating like a mantra in his ear.

_Robb Robb Robb Robb, _they seem to say.

Everything is Robb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. First off, I just want to say a massive thank you to the response this story has received. I am so grateful to everyone who commented, gave kudos, bookmarked, subscribed, etc. It honestly means the world to me. I was so nervous to post this work just because it's far out of my fandom comfort zone and I really had no idea what reception it would get. But you guys all rock, so thank you again. 
> 
> So, all of you will probably hate me for this, but originally the Robb reunion was occurring in this chapter. But as I was writing it and the reunion with Arya grew and grew, I just realized it would be best to hold off on our favorite KitN making his long-awaited appearance. It's just that Arya and Jon mean so much to one another that I really wanted their reunion to stand on its own and not be a footnote to the Jon/Robb goodness coming our way next chapter. But fear not! Even though we didn't see Robb, his presence is massively felt by Jon. Poor guy is driving himself insane. 
> 
> Obviously, for Arya and Jon, I took inspiration from their S8 reunion as well as the Arya/Brienne duel from S7. 
> 
> I really hope my vision of Arya clearly came across, she is tricky to write for. Clearly, in this story, she never went to Braavos and trained to be a Faceless Man. But girl still went through a lot, even if she was spared the trauma of the Red Wedding. What I was aiming for with her reveals of who she killed, was not that she feels guilt over them but she is worried about what Jon may think of her and her actions. I think if she shared these exploits with other family members, especially someone like Catelyn, that would have really transformed her familial dynamics with that person. Even Robb may have taken it badly. So having such sour experiences clouding her, she almost is clinical as she tells Jon of them. Daring him to look at her like she's a monster. It comes from a place of fear because Jon's opinion is the one that's always mattered the most to her. So that he still loves her despite what she has done to survive means a lot to her. 
> 
> Thank you all again! I would love to hear what you think of this chapter so please leave a comment :)


	3. i'll see you with your laughter lines

The day begins as a wet one.

That morning had greeted them with a light drizzle as refreshing raindrops splattered onto their cheeks like pecking kisses. Even when the rain had receded shortly after daybreak, a wispy mist had twined around the travelers holding them tightly in its translucent embrace. Cool moisture was thick in the air, clinging to their clothes and saturating their hair until damp strands fell over their eyes and stuck to their cheeks. 

Yet the day still shows signs of promise for a lovely spring afternoon. Or, at least, lovely from a Northern point of view. Great, white clouds the size of ships leisurely roll across the unending sky as the sun valiantly tries to shine through their nebulous haze. Its shattered beams nearly glow across the rich, green earth as tree branches rustle and tall grass sway in the breeze. The enchanting perfume of fresh flowers and wet earth is fragrant in the air as Jon breathes it in from atop his palfrey.

Between one blink of the eye and the next, the way ahead of them clears as they crest a verdant hill overlooking a valley. From their high vantage point, they can see for miles in every direction. The sight before them has Jon’s breath catching in his throat as his hands subconsciously tighten around the reins of his horse.

Winterfell.

Jon has dreamed of Winterfell often over the years he’s been away. Mostly, it would be a single room or place within the sprawling keep. The training yard in all its simplistic glory. The bubbling hot springs deeply hidden in the Godswood. The softness of Robb’s featherbed with the secure weight of thick furs thrown over him as they slept. The underside of the reading table in the far corner of the library where Jon had – on a dare from Theon Greyjoy – scratched his name into it with a knife nicked from the kitchens. The impregnable warmth of his father’s solar as his deep voice regaled his children with the great tales and legends of the Stark kings.

He has dreamed so often of Winterfell but nothing could prepare him for seeing it now as it stretches out below him, whole and complete just as it had been in his childhood. Its sturdy, granite walls, with its boxy crenulations and numerous turrets, encase the towers and buildings of the inner keep as the direwolf of House Stark waves from atop the battlements. The treetops of the Godswood are visible and the Weirwood’s blood-red leaves burn against the surrounding green, their brilliance setting the sky on fire. The Broken Tower, miraculously, has somehow been rebuilt to its former glower and its stony façade soars higher than anything else in the ancient stronghold.

The yearning – as deep as it was bewitching – that Jon has so ruthlessly suppressed for weeks rears its head and explodes within him, setting his nerves alight with unnamable emotions. His throat squeezes shut, his heart drums erratically against his ribcage, and there’s a wetness pooling in the corner of his eyes. And all he can think, all that he can comprehend is _home._

Jon Snow, against all the plans of every god, has come home.

He is not the only one so powerfully affected by the stunning sight of the seat of the North. Both Daric and Ruger wear matching expressions of jubilation as they look upon the keep they haven’t seen in more than a moon’s time.

“Home,” Ruger sighs dreamily as he shifts in his saddle. The young lad looks more than ready to remove the burden of his mission from his weary shoulders and find his way to the nearest, warm bed.

“Aye,” Daric agrees as he rubs his chin. The only warm bed he’ll be in tonight is that of his favorite kitchen maid, Kiyara. “Ain’t she a beauty?”

“She really is,” Jon quietly agrees as he swallows uselessly, trying to force down the lump in his throat. The sight of Winterfell has parched him and he almost feels like a drowning man hopelessly adrift among the crashing waves of the sea and Winterfell is the lighthouse guiding him to the safety of shore.

“Alright ladies, let’s stop our weeping,” Arya lightheartedly mocks as she brings her horse alongside Jon’s and gives him an affectionate grin as their eyes meet. But even her gaze turns softly sentimental as she looks at their home. A tranquil moment passes in silence before Arya’s glancing at him with a jaunty curve to her mouth and a challenging glint in her eyes.

“Race ya!”

She takes off in a flash as her gelding canters down the hill, kicking up clumps of dirt in its wake. Jon doesn’t even hesitate before he’s nudging his steed forward and they’re tearing after her, leaving Daric and Ruger to squawk in confused protest. The sun shines down on them through the clouds as they gallop across the moors of Winterfell, the castle growing tantalizingly closer. The wind whistles through Jon’s hair and slaps his cheeks. They’re traveling so fast he nearly feels as if he is flying. His blood pulses magnetically through him and the growing adrenaline is euphoric as he lets out a loud whoop that’s swallowed by the wind, feeling like a young boy again instead of the depleted man he has become.

A massive, white blur speeds past both Jon and Arya as Ghost races ahead, barking happily at running through the same lands he had done so as a pup. From Winterfell, joyful howling rises up and is carried towards them on a gust of wind. Ghost’s brothers know their pack member has come home again and they eagerly await his return.

Jon isn’t sure how he keeps his composure as he slows his horse to ride through the North Gate, through the double walls with the deep moat running below them. All Jon can hear are his horse’s hooves clopping against the wooden drawbridge – it matches the steady clip of his heartbeat – as he enters Winterfell for the first time in ten years.

There is so much to take in as his eyes are pulled in a thousand different directions, desperately trying to familiarize himself with the home he never thought to see again. To the right of them, the arched glass gardens glitter in the sunlight like a thousand diamonds. To the left, the Broken Tower looms above them, casting them in its long shadow as the squat, drum tower that is the First Keep resides next to it as it has done for thousands of years.

“Do you still call it the Broken Tower?” he dumbly asks of Arya who is riding a few paces ahead of him. He doesn’t know why he asks such a question. It doesn’t really matter, does it? If it’s still called the Broken Tower when no longer a broken and crumbling ruin? It’s just a tower constructed of brick and stones. But what would they even call it now? _The Complete Tower? The Tall Tower?_ He’s being stupid but it’s all Jon can think about as he stares up at it. He is clutching onto it like a lifeline to keep everything else at bay before it completely overwhelms him.

Because if they no longer call it the Broken Tower then what else has changed? How else has Winterfell morphed into a place unlike the one of his childhood and his dreams? What if it’s changed too much? What if he can’t reconcile the differences? What if he’ll always be searching for the Winterfell of his past? What if he doesn’t belong here anymore?

_What if?_

What will he do if the Broken Tower isn’t the Broken Tower anymore? Ride back to the Wall? Retake the black and spend the rest of his days freezing in that wasteland where the only thing colder than the weather will be the scorn of his fellow brothers?

Arya must detect the hint of fear lacing through everything he isn’t saying because her eyes are reassuring, anchoring him firmly to the present, as she peers at him over her shoulder.

“We still call it the Broken Tower.”

Her words bolster his faltering spirit and it’s only because of that that he can breathe in a deep inhale of relief as he slumps forward in his saddle. People are loitering about, staff and servants of Winterfell, as they look at Jon with their probing eyes sweeping over his Night’s Watch attire. Northerners have always been wary of outsiders. And after ten years away, Jon is an outsider. He should feel uncomfortable at being dissected so closely under suspicious gazes, but he has grown used to such dubious expressions in the last decade, even if there is a sting to it that still smarts beneath his skin.

“Come on, Jon,” Arya calls from her spot atop her horse as she guides it forward, “we have people waiting for us.”

“Who?” Jon asks but his sister just ignores him, leaving him no choice but to follow as they ride deeper into Winterfell, entering the inner bailey that houses the Great Keep. The sight he sees has him wishing he could turn his horse around and ride far away in the opposite direction.

In the weeks he’s spent traveling towards Winterfell, he hadn’t put much stock into how he would be received. He had anticipated that his arrival would be a quiet affair, for who would make much fuss over a long lost bastard brother? Lord Eddard Stark had always received his fellow lords graciously with his wife and children by his side. The welcoming of King Robert and his royal entourage had been the grandest spectacle that Winterfell had ever witnessed with the entire household in attendance to the king’s illustrious approach.

But Jon was Jon. He was now only a former brother of the Night’s Watch. A disgraced Lord Commander, at that. He was a man often viewed distrustfully for being too sympathetic to the plights of the Free Folk. Half-truths and outright lies swirled around his person, oftentimes masking his true intentions. But more than that, he was not an important man in the grand scheme of things. And that was perfectly acceptable for him. Most days, he preferred it.

At best, he thought his return to Winterfell would be marked with a private audience granted to him by the king. It would occur most likely in Robb’s solar or in the Great Hall if they were standing on formalities. It would surely have been a quick and awkward reunion but both would suffer through it stoically as any Stark – or Stark bastard – would. Perhaps he would make the acquaintance of Robb’s wife and his children. Then he’d likely be dismissed to his former chambers. He couldn’t imagine anyone else living in them, small as they were. And the only public acknowledgment of his return would likely just be a footnote to that night’s dinner.

But that’s not what is waiting for Jon in the bailey. It is not the quiet affair he has utterly convinced himself it would be. In fact, it seems to be the opposite of quiet. For all of the Royal Family of the North is standing there awaiting him.

Shocked and feeling betrayed, Jon covertly sends a glare Arya’s way. She must have known of this pageantry and clearly had never felt the need to make him aware of his impending doom. His hellion of a sister only shrugs her shoulders in return, not even the slightest bit sorry for her role in the subterfuge.

His horse comes to a stop and there’s nothing he can do but dismount. Anything else will be seen as an insult. He needs to look ahead, to greet his king as any dutiful subject would. But Robb has loomed so colossally large in his mind that Jon almost can’t reconcile seeing him in person. So he doesn’t. No better than a simpering coward, he takes the necessary steps forward as his eyes flit around and take in the general shape of Robb without ever truly focusing on him, and then he drops to his knee in supplication. 

“Your Grace,” he solemnly addresses with a bowed head, eyes driven to the mud he’s kneeling in. He’s still as a statue as if he could remain here for a hundred years in this stooped position, genuflecting to the brother who upended his world in the best and worst of ways. He doesn’t raise his head but keeps it resolutely faced down even as Robb’s fine leather boots appear in his periphery.

“Jon.”

Robb’s achingly familiar voice cuts through Jon quicker than any knife ever could, inflicting damage far worse than sharpened steel. It cuts to the bone and is both excruciating and enthralling at the same time. Jon harshly breathes out through his nose, eyes still fixated on the ground as the world outside of him and Robb screeches to a standstill. He should say something, _anything._ But his tongue has fused itself to the roof of his mouth. He should rise but he fears his legs won’t work on their own volition.

“On your feet,” his brother commands and before Jon can even try to stand, two firm hands grip his shoulders and raise him to his full height. He only has a fleeting glance of Robb’s face before the other man throws his arms around him and brings him in for a forceful, crushing embrace.

Against his will, Jon’s eyes slip shut; momentarily keep the world at bay as he soaks Robb in. He still smells the same, even after all these years. The musky scents of cedarwood and oiled leather mix together in an intoxicating combination that had, without fail, always sent Jon to distraction whenever Robb was near. Jon’s arms hang uselessly at his sides as his hands clench into trembling fists. It takes sheer willpower not to latch onto his brother like the greedy vines of a rooting plant. He fears if he does so he will never wish to let go. An embarrassing desire he cannot allow to bubble to the surface. Not now. Not ever again.

The embrace, as all things do, eventually ends as Robb slowly pulls back and Jon is finally forced to take a good look at the brother he’s missed for so long and in so many different ways. He’s not wearing his crown or adorned in flowery silk but no one can mistake Robb for anything less than a king as he stands before Jon; tall, broad-shouldered, and impossibly strong.

He has donned a magnificent cloak similar to the one their father used to wear. The great pelt of a russet wolf majestically hangs off his shoulders but he easily carries the weight. His auburn hair is as curly as ever as it falls past his ears and coils around his neck. His cheeks have hollowed out into jutting cheekbones as the last remnants of baby fat had finally fallen away, marking Robb irrefutably as a man and not a boy. He’s grown a full beard, not the raspy stubble he had been sporting when they had parted, and he keeps it trimmed close to his face, not letting it become bushy and unruly as many Northmen do.

Lines are prominent around his mouth; thin, little trenches slicing into the skin with a matching set on his forehead. _From smiling or frowning?_ Jon silently questions as his eyes trace over them. It wouldn’t surprise Jon if his brother hasn’t had many occasions to smile since the crown was placed upon his head. Who could find much to be cheerful about when bearing the heavy burdens of kingship?

But his blue eyes are as lively as ever as they quickly take in Jon, categorizing ever change – small and big – that’s made itself known on Jon’s visible body these last ten years. Those same, brilliant blue eyes narrow into confused slits when they catch sight of Jon’s travel-stained leathers and furs.

“You’re wearing black,” he observes with a scrutinizing frown. Is he insulted that Jon isn’t wearing the clothes that were sent to him? It hadn’t seemed right to. He doesn’t know when it ever will. How does one simply stop being what they were for a decade? It would be like asking a lion not to roar and to sheathe its mighty claws.

“I did always say it was my color,” Jon weakly replies, tongue darting out nervously to wet his bottom lip. In all the ways he’s envisioned this meeting going, he would have never predicted that those would be his first, true words to his brother.

The corners of Robb’s mouth tick up in a small but strained smile as he nods to himself, silently mulling over Jon’s response.

“So you did.” And in an instant, Robb’s face smoothes into a cheerful glow as he reaches out and claps Jon on the back in a jovial manner. “Better not let anyone catch you in it, lest they think you a deserter.”

_I am a deserter in all but name, _Jon thinks. _You made me a deserter by calling me home. Why did you call me home?_

But he cannot asks such things, not here in such a public setting so Jon lets the questions sink back into the recesses of his mind, gone but not forgotten. They are a mystery Jon seeks to resolve but this is not the time or place for it. And neither can Jon and Robb remain locked together in their own world for there are others here waiting to make Jon’s acquaintance.

“Come,” Robb says as he turns, “you must meet my wife.”

This is the moment Jon has dreaded far more than reuniting with Robb. He is finally coming face-to-face with the woman who had captured Robb’s heart so thoroughly he broke his ironclad word and threw away a favorable alliance with the Freys.

Jon still vividly remembers the day he received the raven that Robb had sent him, the stilted words and pregnant pauses as his brother informed him that he had taken Jeyne Westerling as his wife. As his queen. The words had astounded Jon, who had still been reeling from reading the reports of Theon Greyjoy’s subsequent sacking and burning of Winterfell and the supposed deaths of Bran and Rickon. He had sat there for what seemed like hours, letter in hand as he tried to make sense of it all. He was no fool; he had known Robb would one day marry. It was expected of the Lord of Winterfell and it was an absolute necessity for the King in the North. But Jon had resigned himself to it being one of the Frey girls and for the union to take place after the war. He had never anticipated this and the Robb who had written that letter had seemed like a complete and utter stranger to the boy who had once been everything to Jon.

He hadn’t had the luxury of time to make sense of Robb’s maddening words for only days later the wildlings charged the Wall and Jon had lost Ygritte as she slipped away from him like sand through outstretched fingers, right in his very own arms. He had loved her as honestly and as best as he could, given the extraordinary circumstances of their ill-fated relationship, and she had ferociously loved him in return, even if at the end she may have hated him for remaining a crow instead of chasing freedom with her. He does not know what could have become of them if Olly hadn’t struck the life from her with his arrows. If she had lived, would they have remained enemies or would he have been able to make peace with her the way he had Tormund before the destruction that was Hardhome? Would she have been content to settle in the Gift in the lands of the _kneelers?_ Would he have finally ripped off the thin and weak bandages that had been his vows to the Night’s Watch and just decide to stay with her at the settlement? Let her steal him right and proper, let them be something akin to husband and wife? Jon doesn’t have the answers to such questions that have plagued him time and time again. And as the years have passed, he finds the not-knowing much harder to live with than the brutal reality of losing her in the first place.

In the end, he had justified his silence on the utter chaos that Castle Black had fallen into. He had let it be an excuse not to write back to Robb. For his part, Robb had remained stubbornly silent in return. Those actions – so simple yet resolute in the moment – had broken something between them and as time weathered on they grew into the break, farther and farther apart from each other until mountains existed between them. The engulfing silence had only been lifted many moons later when Jon had received a stiffly worded missive from his brother declaring that he had retaken Winterfell and had driven the Ironborn out of the North once and for all. His resounding victory complete as he had also taken the head of the traitor Theon Greyjoy.

The message had been clear. The King in the North and the Trident was ready to rule from his rightful place with his queen at his side. Robb had his own life and Jon had his. And that was that.

And now he is to meet Jeyne Westerling.

Not knowing what to expect, Jon lets Robb guide him to his wife and queen. The first thing that pops into his mind as he sets his eyes on her is that she is undeniably lovely. Jeyne Westerling is not the tallest of women, the top of her head only brushes Robb’s shoulder as she stands beside her husband. Her long, chestnut hair is done up in a Northern style and her dark brown eyes shine warmly as she smiles up at him, dimples sweetly popping in the corners of her rosy cheeks.

She’s dressed in a woolen, light grey and taupe cloak with a damask design. Regally draped around her thin shoulders is the fur of a gray fox; the outline of its head at one end as its bushy tail hangs off the other side. The cloak is loose and full, but it cannot hide the swell of her growing stomach. Jon blinks in surprise at the arresting sight. She is carrying Robb’s child. While Jon is the farthest thing from an expert on pregnant women, he thinks she must be five or six moons along. Soon enough, a new Prince or Princess of the North will be born. The Starks will continue to endure as they have always done so. 

“Jon, meet my darling wife and queen, Jeyne.” Robb has a tender smile on his face as he introduces the unlikely pair who have more in common than Jon will ever willingly admit. “Jeyne, my brother Jon Snow.”

Jon has never properly met a queen before. The only one he has ever seen had been Cersei Lannister when she had come to Winterfell so many years ago. Lady Stark had made it her life’s mission that Jon wasn’t so much as in the eyesight of the royal family during their visit. He has no idea how one greets a queen; so he follows his father’s example and reaches for her pale hand, bowing low as he places a feather-light kiss on her knuckles.

“My Queen,” he murmurs quietly before raising his head. If Robb is his king then undoubtedly that makes Jeyne Westerling his queen.

“It is so good to finally meet you,” she tells him with genuine sincerity as her hands settle on her noticeable bump. “I have heard so much about you.”

“Only good things I hope,” Jon awkwardly answers, feeling unmoored by such a simple comment. Troubled, his eyes flicker to Robb for a quick moment before focusing back on the woman in front of him.

“The very best,” she gently reassures him with a quick squeeze to his hand, that, surprisingly enough, does ease the discomfort he feels traveling up his spine, notch by notch. Honestly, this entire scenario is too bizarre for him to fully comprehend but he is trying his best to roll with the punches, though they seem to be assaulting him in quick succession.

The introductions continue as Robb directs him down the line with a steadying hand resting between the slopes of Jon’s shoulders.

“My children: Prince Eddard and Princess Jyanna,” he announces with obvious fatherly pride coming off him in waves as he beams down at the apples of his eye. “Ned, Jyanna, this is your uncle Jon.”

Jon is thoroughly gobsmacked as he gapes down at the two little forms. His brother has _children._ He’s a bloody _uncle. _He had received the announcements of their births, but still, seeing them now as they stare up at him with their wide, innocent eyes, it completely rattles his world.

Ned can’t be older than five and little Jyanna seems no more than three-years-old. Ned is everything Jon pictured Robb’s son would be. He’s all Tully with light auburn curls atop his head and blinking, blue eyes that shyly take in the stranger towering over him. Jyanna has her mother’s chestnut hair tumbling down her little shoulders but she has been graced with the steely grey eyes of House Stark. The very same eyes that Jon and Arya possess. She’s sucking on her thumb as she holds on tightly to her mother’s skirts, peering at Jon curiously.

Carefully, Jon crouches in front of his niece and nephew until he is at their height, pulling off his gloves to offer his hand out to them. “Hello,” he murmurs in a hushed voice as if speaking to a skittish horse that looks ready to bolt. “It’s very nice to finally meet you.”

Jyanna burrows further into her mother’s side but her young eyes are drawn to the black, shaggy fur hanging off Jon’s shoulders.

“Bear,” she whispers to herself, pointing at Jon’s ragged cloak. Jon huffs out a laugh that rumbles deeply through his chest as he rests his hands on his knees.

“I do rather look like a bear, don’t I?” he asks with a smile as he rolls his shoulders experimentally, the bulky fur shifting with him. “I promise that I’m not as scary as one.”

Jyanna smiles briefly, exposing the gaps between her little teeth, before going back to sucking her thumb, the novelty of Jon already wearing off as she glances around the yard. Next to her, Ned is toeing at a stray pebble with his boot, hands behind his back as he anxiously sways back and forth. He is clearly working up the courage to say something so Jon patiently waits him out. When he’s found his words, his tiny chin juts out determinedly and it reminds Jon so strikingly of Robb that he almost misses what the young lad finally musters up to say.

“Y-you’re a Night’s Watchman?”

“I used to be,” Jon softly corrects. It’s still a fierce punch to the gut to think that he is no longer sworn to the vows he had been prepared to die by. Part of him thinks he’ll wake up at any moment and be back in the dreary barracks of Castle Black. That he had never left and Winterfell, Robb, Ned, Jyanna, and everything else has all been some kind of a fantastical dream that will haunt him the rest of his days.

“And you’ve seen the Wall?” Ned asks with growing excitement. Jon’s lips can’t help but quirk up into a grin as he nods his head.

“Many times.”

“Is it really 700 feet tall?” the young boy inquires with the same eagerness the Stark children always had when Benjen came for his rare visits. They had asked the very same questions with eyes just as large and as glossy as little Ned’s.

“Aye, it is. And it has the most beautiful view from the top. I’ll tell you all about it sometime. How does that sound?”

Ned’s round head bops so energetically it almost looks ready to roll off his neck and onto the ground. With a final smile to the precious children his brother has sired, Jon raises himself back to his feet and looks to Robb only to see that his attention has been captured by the overjoyed direwolves who’ve had a reunion of their own.

“By the Gods, Ghost has gotten big,” Robb comments with a broad grin as the wolves wrestle happily, barking and yipping loudly as they play, looking more like oversized puppies than the huge predators they have become. “Can you believe he was once the runt of the litter and now he trumps his brothers?”

Jon follows his gaze and smiles as he takes note of Grey Wind’s sleek figure, still the unquestioned leader of the pack, and the ferocity of Shaggydog as the black direwolf plows into Ghost, trying to get him onto his back as the albino staunchly holds his ground against his brother.

“It’s from the crisp, northern air and the wide-open spaces of the Wall and beyond,” Jon finds himself saying as he keeps his eyes on Ghost. “It helped him grow strong. It let him be free.”

When he looks up it’s to find Robb’s eyes trained on him, the blue irises flashing with an unknown thought before Robb pointedly glances away.

“Well, I can only hope we haven’t taken his freedom by calling him home, where he belongs.”

Jon isn’t even granted a moment to think over Robb’s words before a blur of a person barrels into his side, nearly tackling him to the wet ground. He goes staggering back, all the air squeezed from his lungs as the offender clings to him with a hearty hug.

Rickon.

At six-and-ten, Rickon is more man than boy as Jon finally gets a good look at his baby brother. It’s only been four years since he’s last seen him but it might as well have been a lifetime for all that Rickon has grown like a weed in that time. He’s tall and lanky, clearly just off a fresh growth spurt that has given him a gangly awkwardness to his movements. Though skinny now, his shoulders show the promise of broadening and one day he’ll likely be a strong as Robb. His curls are a wild, untamed mess as they stick up in every direction and he’s yet to grow a beard but Jon can see the tell-tale signs of peach fuzz curving around his chin.

“Look at you!” Jon exclaims with laughing happiness as his hands settle on Rickon’s shoulders. He shakes his head in disbelief even as his own smile threatens to split his face in half. “You’re nearly a grown man.”

“Aye, I am,” Rickon tells him with an audacious grin, his voice lower than Jon could ever imagine it being. Delighted, Jon chuckles and takes Rickon in fully, noting that his clothes are in complete disarray and he has several stray leaves and twigs nestled in his hair. Had he been rolling around in the mud? Knowing Rickon, it seems a valid accusation.

“A proper prince you are,” Jon teases as he pulls a leaf from Rickon’s curls and tosses it aside.

Rickon glares and socks Jon square in the shoulder. “Call me ‘prince’ again and I’ll be aiming for your face.”

Jon snorts even as he rubs his aching joint. Who knew his baby brother would have such a mean punch? Honestly, he doesn’t know if he’s ever heard of a royal family in all of history so averse to _being_ royalty. But, if anything, it only makes him love them more. Ned Stark had been the salt of the earth and he had raised his children as such, never letting them grow soft and spoiled but making sure they understood the labor of a hard day’s work. Not even crowns could strip away their down-to-earth roots.

“Who knew Starks were so prone to violence?” he good-humoredly quips as he looks to Arya, remembering her nearly identical comment upon him calling her a princess. She just sticks her tongue out at him in response.

And, at the center of the bantering siblings, is a grinning Robb who looks elated to have the majority of his family together again. Jon can understand the sentiment. When they had all left Winterfell and their worlds had fallen apart so spectacularly, he had never imagined such a reunion could ever take place, even if the pack is still not whole with Bran and Sansa missing. But it’s more than Jon thought possible and his heart feels ready to burst at any moment.

But, as all good things do, it doesn’t last long.

A figure emerges from the Great Keep and his worn robes and the clanging of metal chains with his every movement easily identifies him as a maester, though he is the youngest maester Jon has ever seen. _This must be Maester Luwin’s replacement,_ he silently muses, thinking that the man can’t be older than 40. His olive skin, dark mane of hair, and startling green-blue eyes stand out exotically this far north. He must be from the south. Dorne, perhaps.

The man comes to Robb’s side, leaning in and whispering something into his brother’s ear. Robb grimaces at whatever he hears before nodding once and turning to Jon with an apologetic frown.

“The duties of a king are never-ending, I’m afraid. You must excuse me; I have a council meeting to attend.”

Disappointment plunges into Jon’s heart, but really, what else had he expected? This greeting in the yard with the entire family present was far more than his station warranted. With that in mind, he purposefully keeps his face neutral as he nods in understanding.

“Of course.”

Robb steps forward and clasps Jon’s shoulder and even through the thick layers of fur and clothing Jon’s wearing, he almost believes he can feel the heat of Robb’s touch searing into his skin like a brand.

“We shall talk later; tonight, at the feast.”

Jon’s stomach drops out from beneath him as he whips his head towards Robb. “The _what?”_

“The feast that will be held in your honor.” Robb’s grinning as he gives Jon a light shake. “You really think we would let such a momentous occasion pass without proper celebration? It’s not every day one’s brother comes home after so long away.”

That’s not true.

Bran came home. As did Rickon. They were Starks. Feasts were meant for them. Jon was…well, Jon. A feast for a bastard is laughably absurd. And that’s to say nothing of his current condition. He’s spent the last three weeks on the road traveling; he’s exhausted, dirty, and hungry. He doesn’t know if he can survive a proper Northern feast. In fact, the revelries may just kill him. And now that he is home, he doesn’t wish to exit this world by drowning in a bowl of stew when he undoubtedly slumps headfirst into it, unconscious and dead to the world.

But he keeps his misgivings to himself, stiffly nodding and trying not to tense as Robb drags his hand from Jon’s shoulder. He offers his arm to Jeyne and escorts his wife back into the Great Keep as a nearby septa herds the royal children along. As soon as they disappear inside the usual hustle and bustle of Winterfell picks up again. The spectacle is well and truly over. Life carries on as always. And there are always chores that need tending to.

Arya disappears with a wink to Jon and the excuse of needing to go to the smithy. Rickon leaves him with a final, good-natured punch to the shoulder before racing off. Even Ghost has made himself scarce, most likely running wild with his brothers off in the Wolfswood.

And Jon…Jon doesn’t quite know what to do with himself.

He has come home again. He’s standing right here, in the beating heart of Winterfell, and he has no idea what to do or where to go. He must look quite the sight, a figure shrouded in black just staring ahead as silent and as brooding as ever. Shaking himself out of his stupor, he forces himself to take the necessary steps forward to enter the castle.

Without conscious thought, Jon lets his feet guide him as he ventures through the stone hallways and dimly lit corridors of what was once his home. He still viscerally remembers his reaction to learning of the destruction of Winterfell. How the Ironborn had sacked the castle and then mercilessly burned it to the ground. The heartbreak Jon had felt then had nearly brought him to his knees in wretched despair. Had the Gods not taken enough from them when Ned Stark was viciously killed? But to take Winterfell as well? What had the Starks ever done to deserve such unkindness and betrayal at every turn?

Winterfell had stood for more than 8000 years. It had been erected by Bran the Builder and it was said that magic resided in its stones. How could less than a hundred men wreak such havoc and chaos that nearly destroyed it all? How could Theon Greyjoy do such an abominable thing to the keep that had raised him, to the people who had treated him like one of their own?

But from the ashes Winterfell had been rebuilt, stronger and more glorious than ever. It’s not the same; Jon can discern that for himself as he roams through the network of hallways. But it’s so very close. Close enough that Jon almost expects his father to round the corner ready to chide Jon for being late to his lessons; his eyes warm even as his voice was stern. He can nearly hear the echoes of the giggles and laughter of his childhood, of all the mischief the Stark children had gotten into.

He’s stopped without even thinking about it. He owlishly blinks in surprise before realizing where his feet have led him.

His old bedchambers.

He had lived here from the moment he and Robb had been deemed too old for their shared bedroom at the tender age of ten. Robb had moved into the family wing in the traditional room for the heir and Jon had been placed here, about as far away as one could be from the Stark family. Small and unloved as his room had been, it had never been a hardship to call it his own. He knows now that bastards elsewhere had it far worse than him, who had grown up in a castle with all the privileges and amenities as his trueborn siblings. And, yet, as a young boy, the world had seemed a maliciously unfair place to a bastard like him. If only he had known what was waiting for him beyond the safety of Winterfell’s walls.

Even now, his room at Winterfell is an extravagance compared to the conditions he had endured at Castle Black for a decade. And, at this very moment, all Jon wants to do is drop down onto a soft bed and sleep for the next year. So he opens the door ready to do just that.

He stops short in the doorway. His bed is gone. As is his wardrobe and the rickety writing desk that used to be in the corner of the room, right beneath the window. In their place is an odd assortment of goods scattered throughout the cramped quarters. Various fabrics and cloths, all a wide array of colors and patterns. A large weaving loom is propped up against the wall. Hells, there are even unused chamber pots stacked up on top of each other in the far corner. 

His bedroom has become a glorified storage closet.

He stands there, stumped and horrified as he stares at all the junk taking up space in what had once been _his _room. What in the hells is he supposed to do now? Where is he meant to stay? The guest house? Those were for dignified visitors, surely Jon isn’t meant to reside there permanently? His brain rationalizes that he should ask a passing servant where he is meant to go but the indignity of being forced to ask a servant where his new room is in his own bloody home is too much to bear. At worst, he could bunker down in the stables. He’s slept in far more uninhabitable spaces before.

“The king had warned us of this.”

The feminine voice sounds from behind Jon and he whirls around, coming face-to-face with a woman who is watching him with amusement flashing through her hazel eyes, her full lips curled in a coy smirk. She’s wearing a forest green dress that snugly wraps around her lithe form with a woven leather belt cinched at her waist. Jon vaguely remembers seeing her in the yard, standing near Jeyne Westerling’s side. One of her ladies-in-waiting, perhaps?

“Beg your pardon?” he gracelessly asks. The woman bites her lip and Jon has the distinct feeling that she’s laughing at him in her head. He probably deserves it. He usually does.

“The king feared you would expect your boyhood accommodations. I am here to escort you to your _proper_ chambers.”

“Right.” Jon nods his head, still very confused, and with a final, forlorn glance to what had once been his room, he shuts the door and turns fully to the woman watching him with her sharp, intelligent eyes.

“Thank you…?” he falters, not knowing her name. The proper manners of the nobility have long ago fallen away from Jon’s daily life. There wasn’t much use for propriety and courtesy among the outcasts of society that was the Night’s Watch and there was even less need for it among the crude and rough ways of the Free Folk. Perhaps Tormund had been speaking the truth when he said Jon wasn’t much of a kneeler anymore. The thought has him glowering.

He feels mightily off-balanced. He’s felt it since the moment he entered through the gates of Winterfell. It had been well hidden in the joy of reuniting with his family, but now, in the cold and shadowy passageway, he can feel it gnawing at his bones like some kind of parasite. How long until he falls prey to its disease?

“Sabina Sarsfield,” she graciously saves him from his own social ineptitude. “And you are Jon Snow. I have heard a great deal about you.”

“Seems to be a recurring theme,” he mumbles under his breath as she begins leading him down the corridor to his new quarters. It’s disquieting that strangers seem to know him so intimately when he knows nothing of them. What have they been told? What judgments have they made of him? Does he meet expectation or is he lacking?

It is silent as Sabina guides him through the winding halls. She’s completely and utterly poised as her feet silently glide over the stones. He glances at her and, trying to dispel the floundering quiet, he attempts small talk even though it has never been one of his strengths. 

“Sarsfield?” he questions aloud as she tilts her head towards him. “That is a noble House in the Westerlands, is it not?” He’s had to rack his brain to the long-ago lessons Maester Luwin had once methodically drilled into his head on the various Great Houses of Westeros. Through the cloudy haze of his memories, he can see it now.

House Sarsfield.

Their sigil is a green arrow on a white bend adorned upon a green field. Their words: _True to the Mark._ Around her neck, he spies a gold locket standing out resplendently against her ivory skin. A family heirloom, most like. Engraved onto the locket is a bow with an arrow notched and ready to take aim. They’re avid hunters, he remembers.

She must be one of the queen’s ladies. A girl from the Westerlands doesn’t simply end up in the North without a purpose.

“You know your geography, Lord Snow,” she teases him with a closed-lip smile.

Jon recoils at the unintentional slight she has just paid him. _Lord Snow._ A derisive nickname Alliser Thorne had gifted him upon his arrival at the Wall. As cruel and insulting a moniker it had been, he hadn’t been completely undeserving of it. He had thought himself better than nearly everyone at Castle Black those first few weeks as an impetuous recruit. Truthfully, he had acted like a right prat. Even now, the remembrance of his arrogance stings though he is no longer that hotheaded young man who had carried such a large chip on his shoulder. 

“You needn’t call me that. Jon is just fine,” he tells her with a downward pull of his mouth as it settles into a well-worn frown.

Sabina glances at him out of the corner of her eye, an eyebrow arched in interest. “I am merely paying you the proper respect as brother to the king,” she counters smoothly.

“Trust me; I feel far more respected being called Jon rather than…_that.”_

He doesn’t elaborate further. He’s not the type to share his innermost feelings with absolute strangers. Jon can tell that she wishes to question him, to push him on why he is so reluctant on being called Lord Snow but his dour demeanor must be warning enough.

“If you say so,” is all she murmurs before looking ahead as she continues escorting him. Jon sighs knowing he’s made a mess of things. This must be a new record for him. It usually takes him longer to stick his foot in his mouth.

“How do you know the queen?” He once again attempts the tried-and-true method of small talk even if he had failed at his first attempt. He’s not a complete uncouth brute of a man. He’s just a little…rusty.

Again, taking mercy on him, Sabina smiles as her eyes gleam in fond memory. “I fostered at the Crag as a young girl. Jeyne – _the queen_ – became my dearest companion and I hers.”

Her eyes scan him before she blithely remarks, “I imagine our relationship was not so dissimilar to yours and the king.”

Jon nearly trips over thin air as his hackles rise immediately, suspicion gripping onto him like a vice. During his travels to Winterfell, Jon had counseled himself on what he and Robb must be to each other going forward. They will be brothers. _Only_ brothers. Jon will endeavor to be the very best of brothers. He will be an ardently loyal and faithful subject. He will never give anyone cause to ever question his and Robb’s past relationship. He will keep Robb’s secret safe. He plans to swear it on the heart tree in the Godswood. And a promise broken in front of the Old Gods is punishable by death – an excruciating death, most like. 

“Meaning?” he asks her through clenched teeth as unease spikes through him like the ringing of bells.

“Thick as thieves,” she responds without batting an eye. “Regular partners in crime. Getting into all manners of mischief and mayhem.”

Jon deflates instantly, his previous wariness slowly melting away into the dark corners of his fear. She had meant nothing by it. Jon is merely acting paranoid. He hasn’t even been back in Winterfell for a full hour and he’s already chasing shadows and looking for nonexistent threats. This does not bode well for him or his nerves going forward. 

“When she married the king, I could hardly leave her alone to withstand your harsh, Northern winters,” Sabina carries on unconcernedly, having no idea of the avalanche of fear she had caused to spiral in Jon only seconds before. “So here I am as one of her ladies-in-waiting.”

“She is lucky then, to have a friend such as you,” he responds after a moment when he’s gathered his frayed wits. “I can’t imagine many would be willing to uproot their entire lives so that a friend wouldn’t be alone.” It is quite commendable. Jeyne Westerling is blessed by the Gods for such a steadfast companion.

“We are lucky to have each other,” Sabina asserts as she reaches up and toys with her locket.

“Your family did not begrudge you coming north?” he implores curiously, finally feeling at ease in their conversation.

“You mean to say why didn’t they try to marry me off like a herd of cattle to the highest bidder?” Sabina smartly refutes.

“Er…”

Once again, Jon falters in this dance he doesn’t quite know all the steps to. It’s like playing a game of chess blindfolded. And Sabina Sarsfield is undoubtedly a skilled opponent who’s already paved the way towards trapping him. She fills the silence before he can make himself any more of a fool.

“I am not a highly valued commodity, I am afraid,” she tells him in a matter-of-fact tone, not particularly bothered one way or the other. “After all, I am only the third daughter and my father has two strapping sons to carry on the Sarsfield name. Not much incentive for any eligible bachelor in the Westerlands to seek my humble hand.”

“I imagine there’s no shortage of Northmen who would gladly marry you,” Jon clumsily states. He then feels his cheeks flush in embarrassment. He hadn’t meant anything by it but one would have to be blind not to see that Sabina Sarsfield is a beautiful woman. Her long, golden hair is a rare thing in the North and surely she must have caught the eye of the lords and their sons. If only because they would desire the close proximity to the king and queen through the queen’s dearest friend.

They’ve only spent a few minutes in each other’s company but Jon can confidently say that she has a quick wit to her and a bit of a bite beneath her words. Mayhaps those are undesirable traits in the South, but men in the North have always liked their women with an iron backbone to them. Or so Jon has been led to believe. The Greatjon never looked happier than when his Lady Umber loudly chewed him out for all to see. Women have to be strong in the North or they will not survive the winter.

“Are you proposing, Jon?” she asks him as her lips twist into a playful smile. “How very forward of you.”

She is clearly teasing him and all Jon can do is shake his head and take it. He got himself into this own damned mess, after all. When will he ever learn? Speaking has never been his forte. There’s a reason he has garnered the reputation as the strong and silent type.

She comes to a stop in front of a closed door and he halts beside her. He hadn’t been paying attention to their wanderings and is surprised to find that they’ve come so readily to their destination.

“This is where I leave you,” she informs him with a nod to the wooden door. His lips quirk up in thanks for her escort and he watches as she disappears down the hall with a swish of her skirts. When she is gone, Jon turns his head to enter his new chambers but with a cold shock to his body, he stops dead in his tracks outside the closed door as he finally realizes where he is.

This cannot be his new bedchamber. Either Sabina Sarsfield was severely misinformed or she’s playing a trick on him. He’s standing in the family wing of Winterfell, situated right in front of Robb’s former rooms. After the Lord’s and Lady’s Chambers, these rooms are the most spacious, making them the ideal dwelling place of the heir. These quarters rightfully belong to Ned when he comes of age to leave the nursery.

They do not belong to Jon.

_Madness._ His return to Winterfell has been nothing but madness and the sun hasn’t even set yet. He lets out a long, hollow sigh as he glances up and down the empty corridor. There isn’t a single soul in sight save for him. He should hunt down a servant and rectify the situation immediately and then find his true rooms. But he’s so very tired he’s nearly swaying on his feet. He’s spent the last three weeks sleeping on the hard, uneven ground as jagged rocks dug into his back, leaving an assortment of bruises. He hasn’t eaten since breaking his fast at dawn, and his meal had been a measly bread roll that Arya had brought with her along with some blueberries. He’s lived in his clothes for days on end and he knows he must smell rather _ripe_ as he has only been able to quickly splash himself off in passing rivers and streams.

“Fuck it,” he mutters to himself. He’ll find a servant _after_ he’s sorted himself out. Even with all his reservations, he still pushes open the sturdy oak door and steps inside the room he had once spent many of his nights in.

He keeps his back to the chamber as he shuts the door and as it closes with a resounding thud, he exhales an unsteady breath and all but collapses against the wood. He leans his forehead onto the cool timber as his eyes flutter shut.

“It’s just a room, Jon,” he mutters to himself. “It’s just a bloody room.”

But it is not just a room.

It is Robb’s room. It is the room where he had learned how to touch and to kiss and to fuck. It is where his fumbling and awkward caresses turned true and steady until he could utterly destroy Robb into a thousand pieces with a stroke of his hand and be equally destroyed in return when in Robb’s grasp. It was in this room where they had laid together, completely intertwined like the ancient roots of trees as they whispered their secrets and dreams to each other under the ebbing light of the moon.

It is not just a room. It could never _be_ just a room. Not to Jon. But, for the moment, it seems as if it's Jon's new room. 

When he finally has the strength to stand, he pushes himself off the door and turns to view his surroundings.

They are, oddly, the same to when Robb had lived in them. Almost as if they’ve been frozen in time for the last decade. Jon had expected – well, he didn’t rightly know what he had expected – but he never thought it would look as it did ten years ago when he used to sneak in under the cover of night to spend those precious few hours in Robb’s bed wrapped up in his brother’s arms, tracing every freckle and mole on Robb’s skin with his lips and tongue.

He would have thought all the furniture would have perished in the fire the Ironborn had unleashed on Winterfell. But they still stand, as strong and as immovable as ever. The centerpiece of the roomy chamber is the grand four-poster bed that had been handcrafted centuries before by one of Jon’s ancestors. It is constructed of the finest mahogany from the Wolfswood. The ornate bed has four columns with Weirwood leaves painstakingly carved into the rich wood. They’re practically lifelike and are more art than furniture. Navy curtains hang from the rectangular tester, ready to wrap around the bed for those freezing, winter nights. 

A magnificent fire is roaring from the stone fireplace, its orange blaze warming the room as it seeps through Jon’s soiled clothes. He sluggishly tugs at the straps of his cloak and lets it fall to the floor in an unseemly heap of muddied fabric. Kicking it aside, he steps further into the room, keenly taking stock of everything.

Two armchairs, usually placed in front of the hearth with a small table between them, have been pushed to the far corners of the room. Jon recognizes them as the same chairs that had been here when this room had belonged to Robb. They’re undeniably comfortable with the plush upholstery of cut velvet that is studded to the chair by brass tacks. The arms and legs of the chairs are wood, the same mahogany as the bed, and hand-carved into them are floral rosettes, foliage, and scrolls. A bulky wardrobe is off to the side for clothing, next to it a door leading to the adjoining solar.

Hanging off the stone walls is a woven tapestry depicting the famed accomplishment of Rodrick I and his successful winning of Bear Island through a wrestling match. In the colorful illustration, the Stark king, wearing his bronze crown with its nine longswords as spikes, has an Ironborn in a fierce headlock with one arm as the other is raised above his head, victoriously holding up a black bear as his trophy.

Taking the armchairs’ place in front of the hearthside is a sizeable, wooden bathtub. Sadly for Jon, the tub is empty of any water. With a disappointed grunt, he hesitantly shuffles to the bed, dragging his feet all the while as he uncaringly scruffs his boots. It’s perfectly made with pillows leaning against the headboard. The goose-feathered mattress is covered with fresh, linen sheets and the thick, coarse furs of wolves.

At the end of the bed is a neat pile of folded clothes; breeches, tunics, doublets, jerkins, and the like. Far nicer clothes than Jon has ever possessed. They seem to be sitting there, waiting for him. With his rough, cracked hands and his dirt-stained nails, he carefully reaches for the shirt on top of the pile and holds it up to carefully examine.

It’s a finely made doublet; crafted from a rich, slate grey fabric with an intricate basketweave pattern. Structured wings sit at the shoulders, hiding the laces of the removable sleeves underneath. Beautifully stitched and embroidered direwolves race across the collarbones of the garment. His finger is delicately running over a white direwolf with ruby-red eyes when the chamber door suddenly bursts open.

He quickly spins around, his hand automatically going for Longclaw at his hip. Instead of a burglar or murderer, his intruder turns out to be two startled chambermaids.

“Beggin’ your pardon, milord,” the older one states with her mousy eyes trained on the floor.

Jon sighs as he releases his grip on the pommel of his sword and lets his shoulders drop in relief. “The fault is mine, you merely startled me. How can I help you?”

“We have water for your bath, milord.”

That perks Jon up. A bath does sound glorious after the journey he’s had. He nods his head and watches as several burly men appear in the chamber, sporting large buckets of hot water. They dump it in the tub until it’s nearly filled to the brim and steam is rising up from it as it wafts through the drafty room.

The maids set down soap and towels that he knows have stones – that have been resting in a fire soaking up the smoldering heat – hiding in them so that when he requires of them they will be deliciously toasty.

“Milord,” the two girls say in unison with quick curtsies and dart out the door before Jon can tell them that he’s no lord and that they’re wasting their breaths by implying that he is. He steps to the tub that rests in front of the roaring fireplace. Water has never looked so damn inviting.

But before he strips and plunges into the aqueous paradise, he walks towards the wall and gently places his callused palm on the rugged stone. It’s pleasantly warm beneath his touch, thanks to the hot springs circulating through the walls. His mouth turns up in a fond half-grin before he lowers his hand and begins unlacing his leather jerkin.

As he sheds it off like a snake sheds its skin, he feels like he can breathe again for the first time in a long time. The stresses of the last few weeks slip off his back as easily as his constricting clothes. His hands move to his neck, undoing the dull green cravat limply hanging there. He tosses it aside, the rest of his clothes following in short order until he is as stark naked as the day he came into this world.

He slips into the water, one foot after the other, groaning in obscene pleasure as the heated water sinks into his skin, soothing the aches and pains that he’s carried for these last few weeks and even the years before this. Even his joints pop as he settles himself. He unties the leather band in his hair before shaking his curls free as they erratically fall over his forehead and cover his eyes. Fully submerged in the water, he lets his head fall back with a little thunk as it listlessly rests against the wood.

_Gods,_ this feels good. He never wants to leave this tub. He could die happy here as a contented prune. Not a dazzling death to be sure – though it would be rather memorable – but who cares about glory when you could die _warm?_ Ten years at the Wall had taught Jon that warmth is the ultimate luxury. Forget gold or jewels; being warm enough not to have your fingers or toes freeze off is truly a blessing by the Gods.

And it’s safe in this tub, in this room. Here, Jon doesn’t have to contend with the outside world and all its unexpected bombshells. He doesn’t have to worry about what’s coming next. He doesn’t have to think and rethink his words and actions so as not to draw suspicion onto himself.

He doesn’t have to face Robb.

He dunks his head under the water and when he finally reemerges, water is dripping down his cheeks and his hair curls around his face in wet, drooping ringlets. He blindly reaches for a bar of soap and brings it up to his nose, greedily inhaling the crisp scents of pine and peppermint. He vigorously starts scrubbing every square inch of his body from his armpits down to his wiggling toes. Honestly, this may be the cleanest he’s been in years. Hygiene had never been a priority at Castle Black. It was even less so at the Free Folk settlement in the Gift.

All in all, the bath proves to be a therapeutic escape from reality, Jon’s body going blissfully lax as the warm water laps over him.

Now all he has to do is survive the feast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo! Sorry for taking so long with posting this chapter. Originally, it was longer and included the feast but as I've been working on it this week it just became way too unwieldy and really would have slammed all you guys with introducing new characters and exposition, and I think, by the end, it would have been dragging. So the next chapter will be a direct continuation of this one and follows the rest of Jon's first day and night back at Winterfell. In the end, I am happy about splitting them because we now have the contrasts of Jon and Robb's public reunion in this chapter and their private reunion next chapter. 
> 
> Ahhh! They've finally reunited. That was the trickiest part of this chapter because I know it's what everyone has been waiting for. Hopefully, it meets your expectations and you all enjoyed it and are intrigued to see where things will be going in the future. Because things will definitely be going places. I can't wait to share it with you. Thank you again to everyone who's taken an interest in this fic. It honestly means the world to me that so many people are enjoying it and have expressed their joy to me. It makes writing worthwhile to have people as awesome as you commenting, bookmarking, subscribing, and leaving kudos. Please let me know what you think of this chapter! 
> 
> So, I'm a really visual person and I create Pinterest boards for stories as a way of making a visual map of my writing. In my other stories, I often upload pictures of characters, locations, clothing, etc. so that the audience can see what I see when I write. So below are the pictures of the new characters we are now encountering. 
> 
> Jeyne Westerling:  
[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/157032205@N05/48926202197/in/dateposted-public/)
> 
> Sabina Sarsfield:  
[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/157032205@N05/48926202092/in/dateposted-public/)
> 
> Ned Stark:  
[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/157032205@N05/48926202187/in/dateposted-public/)
> 
> Jyanna Stark:  
[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/157032205@N05/48925471898/in/dateposted-public/)


	4. cuddled up with hard contempt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to any Theon lovers, but Jon hates the guy and has no problem letting people know it in this chapter. And by people, I mean Robb.

The Great Hall of Winterfell has always been the lifeblood of the keep, pulsating with vibrant energy.

It is where the Starks congregate together, sharing their joy with each other and their people; protected as they are inside the thick, stone walls that keep out the cold and snow. The hall itself is a wide and open space and seems nearly as cavernous as the crypts below as eight great trestle tables fill up the imposing gallery. They can seat more than 60 grown Northmen at each. At full capacity, the Great Hall can boast 500 of the North’s finest men, women, and children.

Hospitable warmth has always been available in plentiful abundance as tremendous tiered chandeliers, rustically crafted from varnished iron, hang from the vaulted ceilings. Hundreds of flickering candles float above the heads of rollicking guests. Wax never drips down like heated raindrops onto the tables and stone floors but instead dangles from the chandeliers like ceraceous stalactites.

Spread across the wooden tables is a veritable array of mouthwatering food. The North may never be as opulent or sophisticated as the South, but no one can say that they don’t know how to put together a mighty fine party when the occasion calls for it. No man ever walks away hungry. There are tasty and sumptuous meats of every variety from beef roasts to salted pork and honey ham, along with heaping helpings of juicy chicken and chewy pheasant. Hearty and filling vegetables such as potatoes, carrots, and turnips slathered in thick gravy are being passed around. And no man can complain of being low in his cups for the alcohol is free-flowing like a waterfall with wine, ale, and black beer.

And in such a chasmal space, the noise of guests reverberates all around, bouncing senselessly off the stone walls until it’s all a jumbled and chaotic cacophony of silverware clinking against plates, goblets and tankards being slammed down onto tables, and the rough guffaws and unabashed laughter of increasingly drunken men and women.

Off in the far right corner, away from the cheerful light of the chandeliers and wall sconces, sits an old table unnoticed by most, hidden away as it is in the shadows of the hall. It is nearest to the wide doors, made of oak and iron, that lead to the outer yard and every time they are opened a blisteringly cool current whooshes in, upturning the hairs on the back of necks of everyone so unfortunate as to be sitting there. It receives the least amount of food and the food given is of a markedly lesser quality than those sitting closer to the front of the hall in the more desired seats. Even the drinks are lacking as the men there sip on flat, room temperature beer and tepid ale.

That was where Jon Snow always used to sit during the many feasts of his childhood.

He’d be squished in, shoulder-to-shoulder with stable hands, foot soldiers, squires, and the like. Sequestered among such unimportant boys only highlighted his own unimportant position as the Bastard of Winterfell like a slap to the face. He used to sit in the smoky gloom with his slumped shoulders and his face set in a dreary countenance with pinched brows and lips pressed into a frown. He would stare towards the front of the hall where his family sat together at their grand table raised up as it was on its wooden dais. He would sit and stare and dream that he could one day be enough of a Stark to be seated among his legitimate siblings, to have his father look at him with pride shining in his eyes for all the North to see.

“Still looks the same, doesn’t it?” Robb genially asks from Jon’s side, forcibly shaking him from his windingly morose thoughts. Blinking owlishly, Jon turns his head and regards his brother with gaping confusion. For the first time in his life, he is sitting at the main table of the Starks. Robb is at its center – as is his right as king – with Jon seated next to him on his right-hand side, in the spot of honor, as Jeyne mirrors him to Robb’s left. The rest of the family spreads out among them, filling up the spaces of the table.

“What?” So lost in his own head as he was, Jon honestly has no idea what Robb is talking about.

“The Great Hall,” his brother says with a nod to the room. “It still looks as it did when we were children.” An indulgent smile graces his bearded face as his eyes trace over the familiar surroundings. “Just like old times.”

“Yeah,” Jon hollowly agrees as his gaze flits back to the dark corner of the hall, the spot way below the salt that he had been his. “Just like old times.”

He spears a roasted potato with his fork and brings it up to his mouth, chewing slowly as the food turns to ash on his tongue. He forces it down with some ale. From his spot, he can see everything and everyone in the Great Hall and they can see him in return like he’s some kind of confined animal on display for all to gawk at through the gilded bars of his cage.

That is another thing that has Jon’s skin crawling as he shifts in his seat, tugging uneasily at the collar of his grey doublet. It seems half the North is here to be a witness to his homecoming. The colorful and proud banners of Houses Manderly, Thenn, Bolton, Glover, Cerwyn, Tallhart, Dustin, Ryswell, Ashwood, Condon, Hornwood, Ironsmith, Locke, Blackpool, and the Flints of Widow’s Watch all hang from the walls.

There has to be at least 300 Northerners gathered merrily in the dining hall, eating and drinking to their hearts’ content. They’ve all been amassed at Winterfell for the last week or so, come together to discuss plans for the North’s economic and financial future. Robb had let slip a few tidbits here and there during bites of dinner and Jon could only nod along, having no proper idea of what he was hearing. It could be something about new trade routes. Or maybe a new farming initiative? Jon doesn’t rightly know. Whatever it was, it sounded impressive and Robb was clearly excited about the possibilities and wealth this could garner for the North. Something they need now that they stand as an independent kingdom, separated from the affairs of the South.

The only thing Jon can think is that he wished he had been made aware of such a considerable gathering of the nobility. If he had known what kind of trap he was naively walking into, he would have gladly spent a few more nights sleeping in the woods if only to save himself from being the center of attention. In the years he’s been at the Wall, he wouldn’t have been surprised if most of the Northern Lords had forgotten that Ned Stark had ever sired a bastard son; most would have likely been gladdened to ever fail to remember about Ned Stark’s one, glaring stain on his honor. At Castle Black, he was sufficiently out of sight and out of mind, ready to be forgotten by the North as a whole. But now they’ve all been effectively reminded of his existence as he sits at the head table, right at the King in the North’s side as if he belongs there. But he doesn’t belong here, that much is clear, and it almost makes him miss the shadowy corner where he had always been shrouded in peaceful anonymity.

He glances up from absent-mindedly playing with his food when Robb stands and a hush falls over the hall. Jon has never seen a room go so silent so quick as every man in the hall respectfully turns their heads towards their king, watching him with rapt eyes as they give him their full attention. An impressive feat in the North.

“Friends,” Robb begins in a booming voice that easily carries throughout the hall. His crown is not atop his head but his attire is kingly and elegant as he wears a skillfully made tunic that falls to his knees and has brocade sleeves of a handsome design. The color of the fabric is a deep, muted plum that nearly verges onto glossy black in the quivering light of the chandeliers. A matching brocade cape clings to Robb’s broad shoulders, fastened in the middle of his chest with silver direwolf clasps as the two heads meet with fierce snarls. It doesn’t escape Jon’s notice that Robb’s queen is in a complimentary lavender gown, soft and whimsical in comparison to Robb’s commanding regality. A striking sight they make, the King and Queen in the North.

“I hope your bellies are full, your hearts content, and your thirst thoroughly clenched,” Robb says with an amicable grin as hoots and hollers erupt throughout the Great Hall. Northerners bang their fists on tables before quickly quieting as Robb continues.

“You should enjoy such things for it has been a long and tiring week, filled with much discussion and debate – most of it heated on Lord Glover’s part.”

Robb tips his head in acknowledgment to the Lord of Deepwood Motte who throws his bald head back and guffaws loudly as others around him snicker into their cups.

“Aye, it hasn’t been an easy week, but things worth achieving in this life are rarely ever easy. And though the road has been long and winding, I feel confident in our future as an independent kingdom.”

_Bang-bang-bang _goes Northerner’s fist as they pound on the tabletops like mighty drums preparing for battle, reducing their enemies to trembling green boys as the wolves come for them.

“You named me your king because you believed in me to lead the North to victory,” Robb’s voice rings out and it is so silent in the Great Hall one could hear a pin drop as everyone listens to their king with bated breath.

“And we did win the fight for our independence though it cost us much and victory was never guaranteed,” Robb solemnly declares, his blue eyes dark and sorrowful as he thinks back to the bloody battles and the insurmountable betrayals that nearly were their undoing. Shaking himself from such thoughts, he carries on. “So believe in me now when I say that we are about to enter into a new and prosperous age that has never been seen before in the North. An age of innovation and industry that will make us the rivals of every other kingdom in Westeros.”

More cheering that only abates when Robb forcibly shushes them.

“To the east, we have our fleet docked in White Harbor and it has proven a boon to us and our endeavors in building trade.”

Lord Manderly’s plump face beams with pride from his spot at a table near the front of the hall.

“Now we must look westward and seek our fortunes there. That is why I am most happy to announce the construction of a Western Fleet of ships. Fifty longships made of the finest timber, the same as in White Harbor, to be housed at Barrowton under the direction of Lady Barbrey Dustin.”

In the crowd, Jon can see the austere face of the Lady of Barrowton, dressed in the striking yellow and black of her House, looking pleased with the honor and prestige being bestowed upon her by her king.

“But that is not all we will be pursuing from our western shores. No, a far greater task awaits us there. For months now I have had many discussions not only with my own Maester Castos,” Robb nods to the maester Jon had noticed earlier, “but with many of the maesters in the Citadel via letters sent by ravens. And it is through their consultation of ancient plans and blueprints that I see our dreams are able to become a fruitful reality.

“Friends, together we will build something never before seen in the North. A great canal stretching from the Blaze River up to Bitter Lake where Torrhen’s Square rests and connects it to the White Knife. This monumental canal will be our bridge to the westernmost seaboard of Westeros. It will be a gate to Lannisport, Oldtown, and beyond. No longer will the North be bystanders as the rest of Westeros flourishes with trade and commerce.”

Northmen are nearly frothing at the mouth with uncontained glee as they let out a great clamor that nearly shakes the hall with its fervor.

Robb commands them all naturally as he pulls a parchment from his tunic and holds it for all to see.

“In my hand, I hold a charter for a new port city, which is imperative for the continuing growth of the North. Written in my own hand, I have put my name and my seal to this charter. It will be located in the Saltspear, right at the gaping mouth of the Blaze River, the beginning of our new canal. It shall be named Salt Harbor. And it is in need of a Lord to oversee the construction of the canal as well as be in charge of the commerce that will flow through Salt Harbor, as well as the toll for use of the canal.”

Silence falls over the Great Hall as everyone eagerly awaits Robb’s next words.

“Brandon Tallhart,” Robb calls out in a resounding voice. From somewhere in the hall, a stocky young man – only a few years older than Jon and Robb – rises to his feet with a sheepish expression on his pale face.

“To me,” Robb orders and when he is near enough Robb says, “on your knees.”

The cousin of the Lady of Torrhen’s Square does so, head reverentially bowed before the sovereign King in the North.

“You have proven yourself a capable and ingenious man in your running of Torrhen’s Square as its castellan in the years since your father’s death.”

“Yes, your grace,” the man murmurs with wringing hands. “Thank you, your grace.”

“Do not thank me,” Robb soberly advises. “For I must ask a difficult thing of you. Will you go to Salt Harbor and be its Lord? Will you go and build this canal and run this new port city so that the North will flourish? Will you do and act in my name in all things? Knowing that if you ever act against me you forfeit all rights to your honor and will be named a traitor?”

The man trembles but his voice remains clear as he answers Robb. “I will, your grace. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New. And if I ever disappoint you, may the Gods strike me down where I stand.”

Pleased, Robb’s lips briefly quirk up as he nods. 

"Then rise, good sir. For you are no longer Brandon Tallhart, castellan of Torrhen’s Square. From this day and every day afterward, I name you Brandon Tallwater, of the newly created House Tallwater and Lord of Salt Harbor.”

He looks up and a new banner falls among the sigils of the Northern Houses. It is a brown field with a body of blue water upon it. A white knife is plunged into the rolling waves.

The new House Tallwater.

The hall erupts into thunderous applause and roars as Brandon Tallwater rises to his feet and is quickly swarmed by Northerners who slap his back and shake his shoulders in hearty congratulations. The cheering could rightly go on forever the way the Northern Lords are acting, but even this disorderly lot quiets beneath their king’s strong gaze.

“Raise your cups,” Robb instructs as everyone in the hall does so, “and let us toast to the North!”

“To the North!” Rings out like a battle cry.

“To the Western Fleet!” Robb continues as the yells only grow louder and louder until the ceiling threatens to cave in from such booming exultations.

“To Salt Harbor!”

“To Lord Tallwater!”

“To the White Knife Canal!”

“To Robb Stark!” Lord Manderly yells out as he steps forward from the ecstatic crowd. His cheeks are flushed a tomato red and he’s never looked happier as his belly jiggles. “To the King in the North!”

_"The King in the North!”_

_“The Young Wolf!”_

_“The Lion Killer!”_

They love him. Jon can see it plainly written on their exuberant faces as the Northern Lords cry out for his brother. And how can they not? Robb stands before them unbowed and unbroken, his auburn hair a burning halo beneath the candlelight. He is strong and there is nothing he cannot achieve in the North’s name.

He is a king above all other kings.

He will lead them to greatness; that Jon is sure of.

Jon finds that he could sit here and bask in the glory of his brother for the rest of his life, but it is short-lived as Robb squelches the riotous crowd once again.

“Our western plans are not the only good tiding we celebrate tonight.”

Jon sits up straight in his chair as he has a sneaking suspicious where this is going and the pit of his stomach tightens in worry. _Robb wouldn’t… _He is proven wrong when Robb turns to him with a wide grin, a grin that only grows when he sees the glaring daggers Jon is sending his way.

“This news is of a much more personal nature though I find it no less exciting than talks of fleets and canals. For after ten years away serving honorably and dutifully at the Wall as a member of the Night’s Watch, House Stark is happy to have our brother Jon Snow returned to us.”

Jon wishes for nothing greater than the floor to open up and swallow him whole. Why does Robb do these things to him? Does he think it a kindness? He couldn’t be that obtuse, could he?

Jon tenses as Robb rests his weighty hand on the curve of his shoulder, turning to the Great Hall as he continues. “It is true that Jon has led a most interesting and _unconventional _life these last ten years. I imagine he has many stories to share with us. I, for one, cannot wait to hear them all now that he is in his rightful place, back home among us.”

Robb raises his goblet high in the air. “To my brother, Jon Snow!”

_"To Jon Snow!” _echoes back like a tidal wave, though the applause that follows is a polite smattering more than anything else. Beside him, Rickon’s loudly whooping and Arya’s banging her fists on the table as she cheers. Jon scowls at them and it only goads the rabble-rousers on like the menaces they are.

“Now, I imagine you are quite sick of hearing my voice,” Robb remarks with a lighthearted grin. “I am too. So let there be music and dancing!”

With a snap of his fingers, musicians appear from out of nowhere with their drums, flutes, and fiddle. Within seconds music is playing and the tables are being pushed back to create a makeshift dance floor. Robb seats himself back down next to Jon and ignores his brother’s baleful eyes.

Now that the formal part of the feast has ended, both Arya and Rickon make themselves scarce from the head table. Jon idly watches as Rickon joins a rowdy group of boys who are vigorously drinking and arm wrestling to loud cheers. Among them, Jon can make out the carrot-orange head of Balorn, Tormund’s oldest son. It eases Jon’s spirit to see him so readily accepted among the young heirs of the North.

It takes him longer to find Arya but when he does he is stopped short in his tracks. She is seated near the back of the hall, plopped atop a table as she drinks heartily from a tankard of ale. Beside her is a young man who’s laughing at something she says. Jon watches as the man settles his large hand on Arya’s knee, leaning in to whisper something into her ear. Whatever he says has the youngest Stark girl giggling.

Is that man…_flirting _with his sister?

With a protective streak the size of the Wall and unable to stop himself, Jon leans into Robb’s side and asks, “Who’s that with Arya?”

If he wasn’t so focused on his sister and her _friend, _he’d be marveling at the novelty of engaging in a simple conversation with Robb. That if he looks to his left Robb is right there in the flesh with an awaiting smile. That if something pops into his mind he can just blurt it out and Robb will hear it and respond in kind. Ten years he’s gone without speaking to his brother and he hadn’t realized how much he had missed it until this very moment.

Robb follows his gaze and his mouth curls into a small smile as he replies, “That’s Gendry Waters. He’s a blacksmith here at Winterfell; a rather talented one, at that. Arya’s taken quite the liking to him.”

Jon blinks in surprise as he processes Robb’s words. The conclusion has him flummoxed as he slumps back into his chair with brows furrowed in deep thought.

“You’re saying Arya fancies a bastard?”

She’s always been the rebel of the family but this seems like a step too far even for her. What would Lady Stark even say to such a scandalous match? She’d probably find a way to blame this on Jon’s influence, he thinks with a bit of petty unkindness.

Robb only hums in answer as he takes a sip of wine from his goblet. His eyes settle on Jon and he smirks like a cat that got the cream, clearly holding onto some kind of juicy secret and ready to lord it over Jon’s head as he had done when they were boys.

“Not just any bastard. That’s Robert Baratheon’s bastard.”

Jon’s eyes widen before his eyes snap back to the unconventional pair sitting together, heads bent close as they whisper who-knows-what in each other’s ears. Of all the things Robb could have told him, never in a million years could Jon have expected _that._

Arya and _Robert Baratheon’s_ bastard?

He can’t picture a more strange or mind-boggling sight. Jon’s eyes narrow as he stares at the young man with his dark hair and wiry body, sinewy muscles coiling up and down his thick arms. The King Robert who had come to Winterfell had been an old, fat, drunkard of a man. Nothing like the impressive stories told of him and his famed prowess as a mighty warrior. And yet…if a younger Robert in his prime had looked even an inch like this Gendry Waters, then Jon can readily believe he was capable of besting Rhaegar Targaryen at the Trident.

“How the hell did the bastard of Robert Baratheon end up as a blacksmith in Winterfell?” Jon questions his brother about the peculiar situation, wanting to know more. How that came to be is truly the mystery of this tale.

Robb sighs as he leans back in his chair, arms loosely resting on the wood. “He and Arya spent some time together during the war. They were separated by circumstances; he joined the Brotherhood Without Banners and she was brought to me at the Twins by the Hound. Within a year of reclaiming Winterfell, he just showed up one day, ready to work under the tutorship of Mikken. I didn’t have the heart to turn him away,” he finishes with a nonchalant wave of his hand.

Jon turns his head and smirks knowingly at what Robb didn’t say. “More like you feared Arya’s wrath if you did so.”

Robb barks out a laugh and raises his shoulders in a good-natured shrug at having been found out. “Well, she has a rather sharp Needle. I didn’t want to find myself on the wrong end of it.”

Jon snorts and shakes his head in amusement as his body loosens and he feels his nerves relaxing. But even as he lets himself enjoy their banter and the mirth of the moment, there is still a nagging feeling scratching at the back of his brain that needs to be itched.

“Weren’t the Freys angry that you didn’t uphold Arya’s betrothal?” Jon asks when it finally comes to him. “Especially since you had already broken your own to one of Walder Frey’s daughters?”

He’s unsettled his brother. He can tell instantly from the way Robb’s shoulders straighten and how he grimaces, full lips dragging down into a displeased frown. Robb turns his head away, staring unseeingly out towards the hall as couples twirl and dance happily.

“Walder Frey wasn’t exactly pleased, but then again, the man seems quite incapable of feeling any pleasure whatsoever other than when he’s making others miserable.” Robb picks up his cups and takes a robust gulp before setting it down though he doesn’t release his grip on it. If anything, he claps onto it tighter until the meandering veins under his skin rise up.

“He wasn’t happy, no, but he sucked up his wounded pride when I had my uncle Edmure take a Frey for a wife. Having a daughter of his become the Lady Paramount of the Riverlands had a way of softening the blow.”

“But she could have been Queen in the North,” Jon’s surmises quietly. “Roslin Frey was your intended, was she not?”

Robb says nothing but only gives one terse nod. His gaze is heavy as it remains focused on Jon.

“I hear she is quite beautiful,” Jon remarks, cautiously curious to see what Robb thinks of his aunt by marriage and his almost-bride. Does he regret his hasty breakage of their betrothal? Was angering Walder Frey worth it in the end? But Robb only distractedly shrugs and deflects Jon’s question.

“I hadn’t really noticed. She was lovely, to be sure.”

He glances away and Jon can’t help but follow his eyes, looking to see Robb gazing at Jeyne beside him. She is in a lively conversation with Sabina Sarsfield with a beaming grin on her face. Her hands are lightly resting on the swell of her stomach, fingers absentmindedly drawing patterns into the cloth of her dress.

It makes sense to Jon then, punch to the gut that it is. Robb married for love. What would he care of a Frey girl, beautiful or not, and her spiteful father when he had the real prize? Sure, it had cost him an alliance but he had gotten back into Walder Frey’s good graces by offering up his Tully uncle. He had still won the war and come home a triumphant hero. He had married for love and had two children borne out of that love with a third on its way.

Regret was probably the last thing on Robb’s mind.

Jon is saved from having to think over what such things mean when a lively tune is struck on the fiddle and airily followed by the flute. Northmen loudly cheer as the beginning notes of “The Bear and the Maiden Fair” trickle throughout the hall. Jeyne claps her hands in excitement. Beside her, Robb’s grin grows as he looks at his wife.

“Shall we dance, my queen?” He offers her his hand and she graciously takes it.

“We must, for soon enough I’ll be as big as a whale and unable to enjoy such things,” she spiritedly exclaims as she rubs her growing stomach. Robb is beaming as he helps her stand; eyes trained on his unborn child safely nestled in her womb.

“Aye, but you’ll be the most beautiful whale ever spotted on land,” he reassures her with a kiss to her hand before the two are moving to the dance floor and are swept up in the tide of dancing couples.

_"A bear there was, a bear, a bear! All black and brown, and covered with hair. The bear! The bear! Oh come they said, oh come to the fair! The fair? Said he, but I'm a bear! All black and brown, and covered with hair!’_

Jon is alone at the head table save for Sabina who is watching the dancing with attentive eyes. Sighing, Jon grabs his tankard of ale and makes to stand. He might as well stretch out his legs and take a few laps around the hall. It would give him something to do besides sulking.

He looks and sees Robb lifting Jeyne up as they continue dancing, eyes only on each other with lighthearted grins on their shining faces.

_‘The bear, the bear! Lifted her high into the air! The bear! The bear!’_

He hasn’t ventured far when a woman steps in his path, purposefully blocking his way as she gives him a hearty greeting. “If it isn’t Jon Snow. Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

Jon blinks as he takes in the striking, if not conventionally attractive, features of her long face, pointy chin, and pale blue-grey eyes. Her thick mane of dark hair spills down her shoulder in a severe braid. Even though he has not seen her in several years, he recognizes her instantly.

“Lady Thenn,” he respectfully acknowledges with a slight bow of his head. She doesn’t even reach his shoulders, petite as she is, but that doesn’t stop the noblewoman from lightly smacking his arm in rebuke.

“Gods above, Snow, call me Alys,” she orders him with a stern frown as she settles her hands on her hips. “You, more than most, have been allowed the privilege of such familiarity after all that you did for me.”

Jon flushes in embarrassment as he feels it spread quickly across his cheeks and down his neck. “I did no more than any other man would,” he sheepishly diverts her kind words. Praise is not something he’s ever taken easily to; he doesn’t know if he ever will.

But the Lady of the Karhold won’t have it as she primly rolls her eyes. “You clearly overestimate the decency of most men.”

“That might be so,” he yields knowing that the treachery of man can often run deep and appear hidden to the naked eye. It’s been his undoing one too many times in his years on this earth. “How are you, Alys?”

It comes back to him in bright bursts and flashes, the day he met Alys Karstark as she fled from her home and scheming relatives who wished to steal her inheritance from her. Jon had only been a few days removed from his resignation as Lord Commander; still weak in body and spirit from the betrayal of the men he once called brothers. He had been tasked with the monumental challenge of settling the Free Folk in the Gift and brokering peace between them and the North. He was only just beginning that uphill battle when Alys Karstark quite literally dropped into his life.

Some of the spearwives who had been sent out as scouts had come upon the poor girl, who had been nearly half dead and all but clinging to her frothing horse as she tried to outrun a group of armed men chasing her. The spearwives had scared the men off and brought the fragile, weakling of a lass to Jon. No one could have been more shocked than him when he vaguely recognized the dirty and bloody girl as the daughter of one of his father’s bannermen. In fact, when Robb had been 13, there had once even been tentative plans for him to marry Alys, strengthening the deep-rooted bonds between the Starks and the Karstarks.

They had plopped her down in front of a blazing fire, cleaned her, fed her, and let her sleep for nearly three straight days before she regained enough of her wits to tell Jon of what had sent her absconding from the safety of her home. It was an unbelievable tale of treachery and betrayal by people that should have cared the most about her wellbeing.

After the deaths of her father and brothers, the former for killing Lannister boys against Robb’s expressed commands and the latter falling in battle alongside their king, Alys Karstark, at only six-and-ten years of age, had found herself as the Lady of the Karhold. But not everyone in her household was willing to be subservient to a woman. The girl’s own great-uncle had tried to force her into marriage with his son, taking the Karstark title for himself. When she had learned of such duplicity she had vanished in the middle of the night, seeking aid in the stand against her own relatives.

Unfortunately for her, the North had been in a state of upheaval at the time. The Ironborn had still held Moat Cailin, Deepwood Motte, and Torrhen’s Square within their slimy tentacles and Robb was only then beginning the reclaiming of his kingdom after his success against the Lannisters in the West. Even if Alys Karstark had found her way to him and his troops in the Neck, there was no viable way he could have helped her when far weightier concerns forced his hand. So she had gone north, to the Wall, to seek out much-needed aid from the Lord Commander, a man she knew to be honorable if only for the simple reason that he was Ned Stark’s son, even if that son was a bastard born on the wrong side of the sheets.

When Alys Karstark had stumbled upon Jon and his ragtag band of the Free Folk, he was the farthest thing from the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. He held no power or authority but he knew down to his bones that he could not turn the girl away and idly stand by as she was forced into a sham of a marriage with Cregan Karstark.

In a stroke of strategic cleverness, he had come up with a scheme that was both crazy and brilliant, and that was only if it worked. Alys Karstark desperately needed a shield if she was to take back her home and drive out her conniving relatives. Jon greatly needed a foothold with the Northern Lords if he was ever going to find common ground between them and the Free Folk to ensure that outright slaughter wouldn’t occur.

The union of Alys Karstark to a member of the Free Folk seemed to be the ticket to solving both of their pressing issues. The more he had mulled over it the more it had made sense to him, maddening of an idea as it was. And there was only one clan leader that suited their needs. Sigorn, the Magnar of Thenn, who hailed from the most ‘civilized’ clan of the Free Folk with its own lords and laws, seemed as if he could be both Jon’s and Alys’ salvation. He also was an impressive prospect for the simple fact that he had under his command 200 fighting men, more than enough to take and maintain the Karhold against any threat.

Jon had delicately broached the subject with the young lady in question, careful with his words as he expected her to be quite appalled at the mere suggestion of marrying a wilding savage. Perhaps she would even prefer the treason of Cregan Karstark to the prospects of sharing a bed with a barbarian. But Alys Karstark, even at such a young and tender age, proved herself to be quite a capable and shrewd woman. She had silently thought over Jon’s proposal before nodding decisively as she accepted his proposition. Stunned that it had gone so easily, Jon had suggested that she meet Sigorn and if she found him lacking he would endeavor to do everything in his power to regain her home another way. When she had met Sigorn, she had looked him up and down before demurely stating, _he’ll do._

For his part, Sigorn had only raised an eyebrow and acquiesced to the match with a low grunt, a man of few words that he was. They had been married that very night and House Thenn was created, combining the bronze disks of the Thenns with the sunburst of the Karstarks. Just as Jon had predicted, the Karhold had easily submitted to the superior force of the Thenns and Alys had taken her rightful place as its Lady with her new husband at her side. And in the year that followed as Jon advocated on behalf of the Free Folk, Alys remained a loyal supporter to his cause, helping him whenever she could. She had become something of a friend to Jon and he can easily admit that he’s missed their spirited discussions in the four years he’s been confined to Castle Black.

“Oh, I’m at my wit’s end,” she announces cheerfully as she flips her braid over her shoulder. “But that’s nothing new as a mother to three unruly boys.”

Jon finds himself grinning. “Driving you up a wall, are they?”

“More like throwing me over it,” she retorts even as her mouth rises into a loving smile as she thinks of her three boys: Harrion, Thodir, and Sverne. “They are wee devils but Gods help me, I love them anyway. They get that from their father.”

“Speaking of Sigorn,” Jon interjects as he glances around the hall in search of the Free Folk leader, “is your husband here with you?”

“Oh, aye,” Alys tells him as amusement twinkles through her eyes. “The poor bugger has been cornered by ol’ Lord Too-Fat-to-Sit-a-Horse.”

She nods to the side and Jon follows her gaze and just narrowly stops the snort that wants to escape from his nose as he sees how right she is. Sigorn is an arresting sight among the Northmen as he stands a good half a foot taller than most everyone else gathered in the hall. He’s adorned in a leather tunic that has bronze scales sewn into it and these scales shimmer beneath the candlelight of the chandeliers the same way fishes do as they swim beneath sunlit waters. He is indeed cornered by the rotund Lord Wyman Manderly who’s chattering on and on, not noticing at all that Sigorn does nothing more than grunt and nod at the appropriate places.

Catching his wife’s eye, Sigorn uses it as an excuse to promptly remove himself from the gesticulating Lord of White Harbor and make his way to Alys and Jon.

“Jon Snow,” he stiltedly greets Jon with a firm handshake, still uneasy with the Common Tongue as he slowly sounds out the words and they break through his lips with his thick accent. Jon doesn’t get to enjoy their company for long before a man brutally shoves his shoulder as he passes, upending half of Jon’s drink onto the floor.

He scowls as he turns to the perpetrator and stops short at what he sees. The man makes him uneasy immediately, pinpricks of ice traveling up Jon’s spine as he stares into pale, shifty eyes. The man has a sickly pallor and a cruel, frenzied countenance as his worm-like lips twist together into an ugly smirk.

“I’m terribly sorry,” the stranger remorselessly says as he bestows Jon with a wet-lipped smile. “I didn’t see you there, _bastard.” _

His words are sinisterly gleeful as he mockingly bows to Jon before melting back into the crowd. Shaking off his unease, Jon turns back to Alys and Sigorn to find them wearing matching frowns.

“Who was that?” Jon asks. He didn’t recognize the man, which is a rare thing for him as he’s met the majority of the lords present tonight at least once during his childhood. Ned Stark had hosted his bannermen often and even ventured to their own keeps from time to time, bringing Robb and Jon along with him.

Alys is still glaring as she spits out, “_That_ was Ramsay Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort.”

Jon’s brows furrow as he tries to rack his brain about what he knows of the Boltons. It isn’t much. His father had always been wary of them but had viewed the Boltons as a necessary evil in order to maintain stability in the North. For that reason alone, Jon had very little contact with Roose Bolton as he grew up.

“I didn’t think Roose Bolton had any legitimate children,” he murmurs, preoccupied with his own thoughts. He thinks there might have been a son long ago who had fostered in the Vale and died of some sickness but he can’t fully remember.

“He didn’t,” Alys supplies him. “That’s his bastard.”

_Ah,_ a Snow then. Just like Jon, though the mere idea of him having anything in common with this Ramsay Bolton has Jon shuddering like someone’s poured a pitcher of cold water over his head. He waits for her to elaborate on the new Lord of the Dreadfort.

“The ol’ Leech Lord died in battle during the War of the Five Kings. With Ramsay as his only offspring, King Robb was forced to legitimize him and make him Lord Bolton. Rotten luck, that.”

“Why’s that?” Jon asks with a raised eyebrow. He only grows more unsettled when Alys looks him dead in the eye.

“You remember all the stories people used to tell of Roose Bolton?”

Jon nods. Roose Bolton was something of a scary story children would tell each other late at night, when the wind was howling and the moon lost behind the clouds. Children thought Roose Bolton some kind of demon, fearing that he would spring out from under their beds and spirit them away to the Dreadfort where he’d have them flayed alive and wear their skin like a cloak.

Alys’ next words chill him to the bone. “Ramsay is worse. Far, _far_ worse.”

With a knee-jerk jolt, Jon’s eyes go back to the undulating crowd as he tries to catch a glimpse of Ramsay Bolton, but the Lord of the Dreadfort is not in plain sight. And even as the crowd shifts and sways gaily around him, the feeling of worry remains locked into Jon even as he tries to push it away and enjoy the company of those around him.

The conversation carries on and after a while Jon leaves Alys and Sigorn as he walks up and down the aisles between the tables, catching snippets of the passing chatter happening around him. Most of them are amusing anecdotes and bawdy jokes, causing him to smirk as he takes bored sips from his cup to pass the time.

_"I heard he was stabbed twenty times by his own men.”_

Jon freezes instantly in place as ice works its way up his spine, hollowing him out from the inside until all that’s left is bare-bones knitted together beneath strained flesh. The world narrows down to just a pinprick as his eyes shoot to a group of men clustered together at a table. From their white and purple livery and the bonze keys on their chests, Jon recognizes them as Locke men. Their heads are bent close together and they don’t even notice Jon standing nearby as they gossip in hushed voices.

“I heard he was stabbed right in the heart,” another one boasts as the men around him listen eagerly.

“How could he be standin’ here alive if he was stabbed in the heart?” the youngest of the group questions with eyes as wide as saucers.

“Idiot.” The man next to the boy slaps him upside the head. “That’s why they call him the Undying—“ 

Jon has heard enough. He quickly marches away from the men and their talk of things they could never possibly know or understand. Distantly, he can still hear the lighthearted music even though it comes to him through a fog, separating him from everything and everyone else around him.

The Great Hall is…_too much._

It’s too damn hot as the stifling, all-consuming heat threatens to suffocate Jon, clawing at his throat the way a lion goes for the jugular when bringing down its prey. It’s too ear-splittingly loud as the strident laughter and jeers of celebrating Northmen clash against the aggravating chords of the playing instruments. Jon has drunk too much and he let the alluring taste of alcohol dull his senses, making his mind and body sloppy as he fights through the haze.

And there are so many moving bodies. Like a teeming thrall, they surge around him, pushing and shoving in every which way. And the longer Jon stays here trapped among them the more he fears they’ll trample him down, steamrolling the very life from him. So with his heaving breaths trapped in his throat and the blood rushing through his ears, he forces his way through the crowd and slips out through those iron and oak doors out into the yard.

The chilly night air is an instant, soothing balm to Jon as he desperately breathes it in through gasping pants. His shoulders hunch and his hands rest on his knees as he keeps pulling in deep, yearning breaths until his lungs burn. When he finally feels a measure of calm, he pulls himself together and raises himself to his full height, eyes glancing around furtively.

The yard is filled with the lesser soldiers and servants of the visiting lords – men who hadn’t warranted an invitation to the celebrations in the Great Hall. They are widely spread out, gathered around communal fires and tables, drinking and eating as gaily as their masters. Even a few whores from Wintertown have snuck in, seated on men’s laps with their painted lips and rouged cheeks. None spare Jon a second glance as he wanders between their lively groups. All he wants is to be left alone.

The longer he walks the more at ease he feels as the claustrophobic pressure that had been weighing his shoulders down in the Great Hall – from all the stares and whispers that had followed his every movement – begins to disappear. His feet follow the downward slope of a gentle hill, passing under the covered bridge that leads to the rookery. Away from the ruckus and revelry of the Northern Lords, Winterfell is quiet and steady. There’s a nip in the night breeze but Jon hardly feels it – accustomed as he is to the brutal coldness of the Wall.

Jon meanders without true thought to where he is going, but he isn’t wholly surprised when he finds himself in front of the entrance to the crypts. He has felt drawn to them from the moment he entered Winterfell earlier that day. It was only a matter of time until he could bring himself to come here, to the resting place of the Starks.

The crypts are hidden behind an ancient ironwood door – with the runes of the First Men carved into them – as two stone direwolves stand beside it, silently guarding the burial place of thousands of years of Starks. There are no guards about – no one to tell Jon that he cannot enter. So he slowly pushes open the door, listening as the wood groans and creaks. The echoes of the noise bounce around before quietly evening out.

It’s exceedingly dark and that forces Jon to grab a lit torch from off the wall, holding it above his head as he slowly and methodically makes his way down the twisting stairs, traveling lower and lower into the ground.

When he reaches his destination, it stretches out before him almost unendingly. And it very well could go on forever. Who could say otherwise? The crypts are the oldest structure in Winterfell. As the top layers have been built and rebuilt throughout the centuries, the crypts have stood beneath the ground, cavernous and limitless. They hold the bodies of the Starks – their stone effigies poised with swords over their laps and snarling direwolves at their feet.

As a boy, Jon used to have nightmares about these very crypts. He’d be trapped in them, wandering up and down the mazelike halls as those motionless statues glared down at him, their stone eyes unmoving and unblinking. He could hear them whisper to him in their primal voices.

_You do not belong here._

Bastards had no place among the Starks, even in death. It was for that reason alone that in his final years at Winterfell he had avoided the crypts like the plague. He vehemently vetoed it as a meeting spot for him and Robb; he would not accompany his younger siblings down here when they wished to play among the statues. He knew where he was not wanted. Even now, a part of him wishes to escape from the scrutiny of his long-dead ancestors but he will not leave.

He is no longer a fearful boy but a seasoned man. And nothing will keep him away from his father.

So he walks through the crypts with his head held high and his shoulders firmly raised. The large space is cool and damp and he hears the _drip-drip-drip _of water falling somewhere, landing in a little puddle of its own making. The walls are sparsely lit with torches and the light they cast is nearly mystical as shadows dance about. The icons of Starks are half-hidden in the gloom and Jon cannot see the expressions etched onto their alabaster faces as he marches past them.

He is almost where he wishes to be when his foot crunches down on something. He freezes in place, eyes shooting to the ground to see a disheveled feather trapped beneath his boot. Gingerly he lifts his foot and scoops up the tattered feather that has dust and dirt stuck to it weighing it down. He gently blows the debris off the eagle’s feather and turns to the statue it has laid in front of for Gods-know how long.

Lyanna Stark.

The sister his father loved so dearly he never spoke of her, for doing so was far too painful for Lord Eddard Stark. Because of that, Jon knows very little of his aunt. Only what everyone else is Westeros knows. That Rhaegar Targaryen – in his dragon madness – had abducted the young girl, stealing her away to Dorne where she had died as his prisoner.

Ned Stark was the one to find her but she had already slipped away from this world and into the next. All the bereaved brother could do was bring home his sister’s bones and bury her here, among her kin.

It was because of the cruel loss of Lyanna – and reckless Brandon before her – that Ned Stark had striven so unceasingly to have his children be each other’s protectors. They were to be a pack – so close and completely tied together no matter their petty disagreements and squabbling.

_In the winter, we must protect ourselves and look after one another._

His father had said that often, pulling Robb and Jon aside, laying his large, weathered hands on their young shoulders as he told them such things with his serious gaze boring into his sons’ eyes. As the oldest of the pack, it was their responsibility to look after the younger ones, especially their sisters.

Jon glances up into Lyanna’s tranquil face, looking so impossibly young – forever immortal as she is now. How would Jon feel coming home now only to find Arya’s or Sansa’s statues in the crypts – proof that he had failed his father, had failed to protect his sisters when they needed him the most? The guilt churns in his stomach so forcefully he almost wants to be sick.

Gently, he lays the feather down in Lyanna’s outstretched hand as it delicately rests upon her stone palm. He leaves Lyanna there in the shadows and continues on with a heavy heart. His heart only grows wearier when he finally comes to Ned Stark’s grave.

Ned Stark in death stands before him just as strong and as powerfully as he had in life. He is in his Stark clothes, his great cloak wrapped around him as he stands with his feet raised apart and his hands wrapped firmly around Ice, the ancestral sword of House Stark.

Jon feels small – more like a boy than a man, as he awkwardly shifts before his father’s statue, his eyes taking in every last inch of his father’s face, from the long slope of his bulbous nose to the planes of his high forehead. He misses the warmth of his father’s grey eyes; a warmth that always existed there even when he was stern or disappointed. Their likeness cannot be copied into stone and instead, he looks cold and uncompromising, bent over his sword as he is, almost as if he is prepared to execute a man in the name of Robert Baratheon.

What would Ned Stark think of Jon if he was here? Would he be proud? Is there truly anything for him to be proud of? Jon’s made more mistakes in this life than he can count. He’s broken his vows, trusted people he shouldn’t have, and he’s made a right mess of many things. And now he’s thrown his vows away and for what? What is his purpose here in Winterfell? What can he be now that he is no longer a man of the Night’s Watch? What honor does he have left afforded to him?

Jon doesn’t know how long he lingers in front of his father’s statue when his ears perk up, hearing faint footsteps coming his way. He lets out a deep sigh as he raises his head, not tearing his gaze away from his father’s face. He has a fair idea of who is coming for him.

In youth, those footsteps had a certain swagger to them as they moved about the keep and castle. Not arrogance necessarily – more like an innate sense of confidence in his place in the world. All his life, he had known the expectations placed on him and had been more than willing to meet them head-on. No challenge was ever too great, no mountain that couldn’t be climbed through sheer force of will.

Now, as a man, those footsteps are quiet and measured; a prudent lull to them as they step. The naïve bluster gone as that boy was transformed into a man on the battlefield. A crown thrust onto his head and the lives of his people weighing down his hands. The cares of his kingdom are first and foremost in his mind with every step he takes. And every step, at the moment, is leading him to Jon.

“You got a scar while you were away.”

Robb emerges from the shadows, the light of the torches glinting off the direwolf clasps on his chest. Jon forces his gaze away from their father and looks Robb’s way, seeing his brother’s eyes trace over the scar that cuts through Jon’s eyebrow and continues down his cheek. Orell’s eagle had given it to him. Or had it been Orell himself? Warged into his eagle, seeking revenge and to mark Jon as the traitor he was? For what is a crow against a bird of prey?

“One or two,” is all he says with a rueful shrug of his shoulders. He turns back to their father as he asks, “How’d you know where to find me?”

“Intuition,” Robb’s recognizably husky voice wraps around Jon as silkily as honey drips down one’s throat, threatening to lull him into a false sense of security if he mistakenly lets it. Robb comes up beside him, their shoulders nearly brushing as they stand before their father’s grave. Jon can almost pretend that he can feel Robb’s heat fluttering against his own cold body. It is a lovely fantasy even if it is a damned one.

It hits Jon then. This is the first time in ten years that they’ve been alone with one another. The last time…the last time had been the night before he left for Castle Black.

_You are mine and I am yours._

That is what Robb had whispered into his skin as he marked Jon’s body with his lips and teeth and kisses. He had left violet bruises that had adorned Jon’s body like badges of honor for weeks on end. He can still remember the aching sadness he had felt when the final one – a large one sucked into his shoulder – had finally faded away, leaving his skin pale, unblemished, and completely bereft of Robb’s touch. That, truly, had been the beginning of the end for them. Without thinking, Jon glances at his brother’s profile as the flickering lights of the torches wash over the lines and grooves of his face.

Does Robb remember that night? Or has it been forgotten in the ever-moving tides of time? Washed away and replaced with a far more precious memory from someone more beloved than Jon?

Those are dangerous thoughts to be having. Jon turns his head away as he tries to escape the remembrances that seek to drown him.

“I am surprised not to see Lady Stark,” he murmurs in a hoarse voice, flinching when his words echo around the dark crypts. Robb is looking at him curiously from beside him, so Jon pushes onward through the discomfort of it all. “I would think after everything that had happened she would be unwilling to let any of you out of her sight.”

While Jon could not often find it in himself to say anything kind about the woman who had abhorred his very existence, one thing he had always respected – enviously, even so – about Catelyn Stark was the fierce love she had for her children. She may have been born a trout, but Jon has never known a more ferocious she-wolf guarding her cherished pups than Lady Stark.

It is for that reason he is surprised to have seen no hide or hair of her in his short duration back at Winterfell. He’s not terribly surprised that she did not greet him out in the yard. He probably would have died from shock if she had. But she wasn’t at the feast and he cannot imagine that she would keep herself from her children and grandchildren just for his benefit. If anything, she would have used her closeness to them to spite him.

Robb’s face grows pensive as a small, sad smile appears in the corner of his cheek. “She was overjoyed when we first returned home, ruin though it was. That joy became tenfold as Sansa, Arya, Bran, and Rickon were returned to us. You should have seen her when little Ned was born. When she held him in her arms for the first time.”

Robb’s eyes are shining as the memory joyfully flashes before his eyes. His ephemeral happiness even has Jon captivated in its enchanting pull. But slowly, the smile slips from his face as he looks up to their father.

“But, eventually, the pain of living in Winterfell without Father finally got to her. She said it was like a dagger to the heart every time she rounded a corner expecting to find him there, every time she heard the thick brogue of a Northmen and thought it was him, every time she went to the Godswood and hoped that he’d be sitting beneath the heart tree sharpening Ice.

“It all became…too much for her. She had suffered enough losing him the first time, living here was like experiencing that same suffering all over again, day after day. I wasn’t horribly surprised when she told me that she had been in contact with my uncle Edmure and had made plans to retire to Riverrun. As much as she came to love the North, that has always been her true home. She still comes to visit once a year, even in the winter. Her love of her grandchildren is too great to keep her away.”

Robb suddenly grins as he relays wonderful news to Jon. “She’s at Highgarden at the moment. Sansa’s due to give birth to her first child any day now. But she’ll be here in time for Bran’s wedding.”

Jon involuntarily tenses at the thought of seeing Catelyn Stark in the somewhat near future. What will she think of her husband’s bastard returned from the Wall and ingrained back into the fold of Winterfell? She will not be pleased, that much is certain. Noticing his worried frown, Robb lightly chuckles to himself as he seeks to reassure his brother.

“You needn’t worry, Jon. My mother will be civil,” he saws with a resolute clench of his jaw as his eyes glint determinedly. “I will make sure of that.”

Jon barely bites down an unbelieving snort. No one – least of all _Robb_ – is capable of making Catelyn Stark _do_ anything. Not even their father had ever been able to rein her in when she was in full fury, rare as it was. Who knew a fish could be possible of such rage?

“You don’t believe me?” Robb asks with his brows furrowed in charming confusion and Jon is half-tempted to reach out and smooth the skin back into place with his thumb but he resists such damnable temptations.

“I believe you’d do your best,” Jon carefully concedes, “but your mother is…_well,_ your mother.”

He says it like that should explain everything. And, really, it does.

Robb looks ready to argue, his chest puffing out for a blistering retort but he must think better of it for his shoulders deflate and he lets out a dejected sigh.

“She is, isn’t she?”

Jon nods in agreement. “I imagine she’s cut down greater men to size than you.”

Robb’s lips briefly curl up into a grin as the shade of the crypts twist across his face. “Aye, she has. In the early days of the war, she forgot I was her king and not her son who used to cling to her skirts for comforting caresses and kisses. She questioned me at every turn, even in front of my own men. I had to show her that I was her king, first and foremost, and her son second.”

Jon can’t imagine that that came easily to Lady Stark. Her children were her life. Letting them go – even to become adults in their own right – must have been the most difficult of things to do.

“I imagine mothers find it hard to let go of their children, to see them for the adults that they are becoming,” he murmurs with a sympathetic lull to his words. It surprises even himself. “Not that I’m the expert on mother-son relationships, mind you,” he finishes with a self-deprecating sneer of his lips, closer to a grimace than anything else.

He’s looking straight at their father’s statue and won’t divert his gaze for anything even as he can feel Robb’s eyes burning a hole into his temple, blazing with compassion as they always did when Jon brought up the ghost that was his mother. But Jon willfully ignores it. He doesn’t want his brother’s pity. He never has.

He’s only aware of the passage of time when Robb exhales, kicking lightly at the dirt around them before he turns his head towards their father’s ivory likeness.

“I come here often,” Robb admits in a clear voice that carries throughout the winding halls of the crypts. “It’s the place I feel Father’s presence the most. I come here and I speak to him. I come here and I wonder what he would think of all that I have done. If he’d be proud of me for the choices I’ve made.”

Startled by Robb’s frank confession, Jon swivels his head towards Rob so quickly he feels his neck crack. He grunts a little, reaching up to rub the stressed tendons as he looks at his brother in surprise.

Robb _worries _what their father would think of him? Robb, the glorious golden child, who had led the North into war and come out victorious? That he could have such insecurities seems almost blasphemous. The mere thought of it seems insurmountable to Jon. But he can see that Robb speaks plainly and that is even more troubling to him.

“You gained the North it’s independence for the first time in 300 years,” Jon insists in an impassioned tone. “You became its king. How could Father not be proud of that?”

“But he didn’t want this,” Robb pushes back with a levelheaded response. “He viewed Stannis Baratheon as the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. He wanted us to support his claim to the Iron Throne.”

Jon stands up straight at the mention of Stannis Baratheon. Even though it’s been years, he still remembers the uncompromising and severe man who had been his salvation at Castle Black in the fight against the Free Folk. A man who was more likely to break before he’d ever bend to anyone else’s will. He had been a man so unyielding in his belief that it was his destiny to be King of Westeros.

“Father couldn’t have predicted all the things that would happen after his death,” Jon quietly interjects as he looks down at his hands. “He could never have guessed that the Northerners would name you King and that the Riverlands would follow. But I don’t think that’d make him any less proud of you.”

“And what of my plans for the North?” Robb hounds him as he had always done. Because an argument wasn’t worth winning unless he’d put his opponent into the ground and ensured that he’d never rise from his grave to argue another day.

“Father was never half as ambitious as I am. What would he say of all of this? The fleet, the canal…”

“Father saw the North for what it was and was content to let it be,” Jon tells him.

_Our way is the old way._

Growing up, Jon had secretly been happy that Lady Stark was so insistent that her children follow in the ways of the Seven. They would pray in the sept that Ned Stark had built for his wife and sing songs of the Maiden and the Warrior. But Jon had kept to the Old Gods of the North and the First Men. It was something only he and his father had shared. And how dazzling it had been to Jon, that even as a lowly bastard there was something that was his and his father’s alone, not to been encroached upon by anyone else, not even Robb. But even as the Stark children believed in the Seven, Ned Stark had ensured that all of them understand the importance of the old ways of their ancestors.

The Starks way was the old way…but that did not mean it was the _only_ way of doing things. Jon’s years in the Night’s Watch had made him flexible in that regard, at least.

“You see the North for what it could be and you want to make it in that image.”

A truly admirable image, Jon believes. And Robb is relentless enough to achieve such an image. He was a visionary for conceiving it in the first place.

“And you think I can?” Robb presses with gleaming eyes. “Make it in that image?”

“I think you’ll do your absolute best to achieve your goals,” Jon sincerely acknowledges. “And damn anyone fool enough to try and stand in your way. They’ll learn easily enough that _your_ way is usually the _only_ way.”

He means it in good humor and Robb lets out a little chuckle, though it rings flimsy and false as it weakly rings around them. “I do not always get my way,” he quietly confesses with a hollow flick of his lips. “Some things have _eluded_ me, in the past.”

Jon’s entire body goes rigid as his eyes fly up to Robb’s and he knows he must look like a deer caught before the hunter’s bow. He cannot be implying…? Not here, not now. Most definitely not in front of their father’s grave, gods damn it all.

Agitated, Jon whirls back to their father’s statue as he vies for solid ground, feeling as if he is stepping on sand and it is shifting uneasily beneath him, ready to fling him down a cliffside and into the crashing waves of oblivion below.

“Why the White Knife?” he asks suddenly, trying to steer the conversation back to much safer waters. The question is random but the thought has been in Jon’s head ever since Robb’s rousing speech to the Northerners. Better to speak of it now before everything is derailed by a misunderstanding they will never be able to return from. 

Robb arches a brow questioningly and Jon nearly trips over his words as he continues. 

“Why make the canal on the White Knife?” he clarifies as Robb’s face smoothes into a neutrally interested expression.

“You have to build inland to do so, which makes it more expensive to construct. The journey will also take longer for ships ferrying goods back and forth. Why not make the canal on the Fever River? It’s more direct, a shorter journey, cheaper to build, and it will funnel right through Moat Cailin where Bran could oversee it all. It seems the better option.”

If Jon can see that with the limited information that he has then there is no way in hell that Robb also doesn’t see it. This means that his decision to base the future of the North’s western goals on the White Knife is entirely purposeful. But to what end?

A smile has been growing on Robb’s face throughout the duration of Jon’s summary and he seems almost…_pleased_ by Jon’s astute points as he nods along.

“You’re right,” Robb breezily agrees. “It is the better option, except for one glaring reason: the Manderlys.”

Jon’s face shutters in bewilderment at the unexpected statement from his brother.

“The Manderlys are already the richest family in the North,” Robb carries on pedantically as he explains himself. “If we put the canal on the Fever then they easily become the most powerful. Hells, two of them are on my Small Council with Wyman as Master of Coin and his son Wendel as Master of Ships. It would take a generation or two, but who would stop them from seeing that they are both richer and more powerful than us? What would stop them from trying to become the new seat of the North?”

“The Manderlys are loyal.”

Almost to a sycophantic degree. It is a long-running joke in the North that the Manderlys fled in exile from the Reach only yesterday instead of nearly a thousand years ago with the way they fawn and fret over the Starks’ kindness in giving them the Wolf’s Den. It is a joke said in jest with good humor at the heart of it. For the Manderlys have proven – time and time again – their steadfast fidelity to the Starks and to the North. That’s why the mere mention of them ever turning against the Starks has Jon internally reeling. If they cannot trust in the faithfulness of the Manderlys, then what else cannot be trusted? Northerners are said to be the most loyal of all the bannermen in Westeros. _The North Remembers_ isn’t a phrase said on a whim. It is the cold, hard truth.

“Aye, they are.” Robb agrees with a twitch of his lips. “But why should we chance fate by risking their loyalty? If the canal goes through the White Knife then it will be on _our _lands, letting power and security remain with House Stark. And the Manderlys can find no fault with our plans because White Harbor – and by extension, _their _House – will grow immensely wealthy due to the canal. As will we. Everyone walks away happy because everyone’s pockets are just that much heavier with coin.”

Jon quietly mulls this over in his brain, turning over Robb’s words and the merits of his plan as he begins to see the brilliant truth in them.

“It’s clever,” he impressively concedes, “exceedingly so.”

Robb smirks as he crosses his arms over his chest with a bit of prideful swagger. “I have my moments.”

“And what about the Ironborn?” Jon inquires, not yet content in letting Robb have the last word as he so often did when they were boys. “What’s to stop them from raiding trade ships?”

Robb nods along discontentedly as he runs a hand over his face. He looks tired and older than his 27 years. It is clearly a problem that has vexed him as well in all his planning.

“Balon Greyjoy is a bitter and broken old man,” he elucidates. “He is no threat to us and our endeavors. His daughter, Yara, has some sense to her and she is the future of House Greyjoy. She knows that if her men attempt to reave and raid our ships then the wolves will come for her. In fact, a new treaty is in the works as we speak.”

Jon raises an eyebrow in silent question, entreating Robb to continue.

“It’s as you said, the Ironborn are our biggest obstacle for trade through the White Knife Canal once it’s complete. What’s to stop them from picking off our ships as they sail through the Sunset Sea? So, in exchange for their peaceful cooperation in a binding agreement, we will provide them lumber from the Wolfswood so that they can build their own ships. Any _legitimate_ business ventures of theirs will also have access to pass through the canal.”

Jon frowns as he ruminates over this information. It almost sounds too good to be true. And that worries him. “You think they will cooperate with you?”

Robb offers up an indifferent shrug of his shoulders. “I don’t see why not.”

Jon can see it. He doesn’t know how Robb cannot. “Even though you took Theon Greyjoy’s head?”

There are many things Jon can forgive Robb for, but his blind affection – borne as children and never able to be pushed away – for Theon Greyjoy is not one of them.

“Yes,” Robb mutters brusquely from beside Jon. His shoulders have gone ramrod straight and his eyes are hard. “Even though I took Theon Greyjoy’s head. I believe we will have peace between us and the Ironborn.”

Jon nods but cannot help but ask, “Did he tell you why?”

Robb looks at him irked surprise. “What?” he barks out with furrowed brows.

_“Why_ he betrayed you,” Jon answers succinctly. _“Why_ he sacked and burned the only home he ever knew. _Why_ he butchered Rodrik Cassel like he was no better than minced meat. _Why _he killed two boys he passed off as our brothers.”

Jon has to bite his lip to stop the torrent of ill-will from spilling further from his mouth. Instead, he forces out a calm breath before returning to his initial point.

“Did he tell you?”

Robb, whose expression has been hard-lined through Jon’s biting narration, has his eyes firmly set on their father’s statue as he stares resolutely at the unflinching stone.

“He said he had to choose,” he lowly confesses after a long moment. He seems far away; perhaps he is back at Theon Greyjoy’s execution, only moments before he took his head for his unforgivable betrayal. “Between being a Greyjoy and being a Stark. He chose the Greyjoys.”

“He was never a Stark,” Jon spits out as his fists curl into quivering fists.

Robb looks at Jon, face inscrutable and eyes searching before he bows his head in resigned acceptance.

“No,” he murmurs. “No, he wasn’t in the end.”

Robb huffs out a breath as he reaches up and pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. “It’s your first night back in Winterfell in a decade and you really want to spend it talking about Theon Greyjoy? A man who means little to us now that he’s been dead for years.”

“Why?” Jon volleys back, puzzled. “Is there something else we should be discussing?”

“Yes!” Robb growls before shaking his head. “No. I don’t know. I had hoped…”

He trails off, biting down on his lower lip as his shoulders drop in defeat. The slump of his weary body makes Jon uncomfortable as he shifts his weight from foot to foot. Robb is a war hero and a conqueror, he should never look so beaten and worn down. His head should always be raised and his shoulders broad and squared. This…weakness does not belong to Robb.

_“Jon.”_

Robb’s voice is soft and thick with an unnamable emotion. Regret? Despair? Conflict? It is unknown. 

Jon stiffens in place instantly. The ice from the Wall has burrowed into his bones and all he feels now is winter chilling his blood. He knows what Robb wishes to discuss and he simply _cannot_ hear it. Not now. Not ever. He is not blind nor is he a fool. He knows what Robb will say. Jon had seen the answer in his brother’s eyes from the moment he had met Jeyne and the children. Must Jon live through the humiliation of Robb telling him that their past relationship was all a mistake and must be forgotten? He has already resolved himself to never speaking a word of it to anyone, why must he and Robb speak of it now when all it will do is add kindling to the fire?

Jon knows Robb no longer loves him. The only affection he can give now is as a brother. That fraternal affection is far more than Jon deserves after all the mistakes he’s made in such a short life. He knows that he should be strong enough to confront the truth and perhaps his stay in Winterfell will even be manageable now that he will fully understand that he and Robb – _you are mine and I am yours _– will never be what they once were. He's told himself as much during his three-week journey to Winterfell. 

But, as much as he hates to admit it, he is a coward. He has lived with the shame of their relationship these last ten years. He has lived with the fact that it was because of _him _that such an affair even began in the first place. Because he is a bastard, he had ruined something in Robb as well by making him a party to such depravity. He doesn’t need to now see it reflected in Robb’s eyes or spilling forth from Robb’s lips as he brings those accusations to light. Why can they not leave them in the darkness and let them die, wretched things that they are? 

So he runs. It is what he is best at.

“It’s been a long night and an even longer journey,” he harshly croaks out as he refuses to even look at the man beside him. “I wish to retire to my chambers.”

Robb visibly recoils at Jon’s abrupt words. _“Now?”_

“Yes, now,” Jon heatedly retorts. He sighs when he sees that his brisk tone has Robb frowning in a disheartened fashion. “I’m nearly worthless on my feet. I imagine I could sleep for days,” he amends in a gentler voice.

Robb looks ready to argue but must see the pitfalls in it because he only inhales in disappointment and asks, “Do you like them at least? Your chambers, I mean?”

Jon’s eyes slip close to keep the pain from leaking out of them. _Gods. _Is this some kind of cruel joke? To sleep in the quarters where he and Robb spent their nights exploring each other’s bodies? Is it meant to rub salt in the wound? Why are these things happening? Why can he not make sense of anything occurring around him?

“They are most…_accommodating,” _he stiffly grants after a strained moment of silence. “I thank you.”

He steps around Robb, ready to make his hasty retreat from the calamitous shitshow that was this reunion.

“Goodnight, your grace.”

“You needn’t call me that, Jon,” Robb immediately calls out from behind him. “We are family.”

Pausing, Jon peers at Robb over his shoulder. “You are a king now and it is your rightful title.”

“I’m still Robb,” his brother contends, his stubbornness beginning to show once again, gearing up for another fight. A fight Jon doesn’t have it in him to wage. Not now after the tumultuous night he’s had.

“Yes, but you’re also a king,” Jon patiently spells out. “That changes things.”

“What things?” Robb heavily asks with a dissatisfied frown. And Jon wants nothing more than to wipe it from his face but he cannot. It is not his place. Not anymore. Not ever again.

_I am the watcher on the walls._

It’s foolish, to think of his oath to the Night’s Watch when he is no longer a brother in black. He doesn’t know what he is, but he lost his place at Castle Black long before his brother ever called him home. But he still feels that sense of duty thrumming through his bloodstream. And if his duty is no longer be the shield that guards the realms of men, then this can be his duty.

He will protect Robb. He will protect Robb from him and the complete and utter ruin he brings wherever he goes. He still needs to swear his silent oath at the Weirwood tree, spilling his blood in an unbreakable pact with the Old Gods.

_Only brothers._

He can be that, for Robb. He would do anything for his brother.

“Everything,” he answers honestly as a mournful smile adorns his face. In the dim lighting of the crypts, Jon can’t clearly make out Robb’s face. His eyes flash and his face shudders. He looks almost…crestfallen? Jon doesn’t rightly know for in the blink of an eye Robb’s face is devoid of any emotion, as unflinching as the stone statues littered around them.

Seizing his escape with both hands, Jon spins around and begins slinking his way through the somber catacombs. He doesn’t get far before Robb’s voice calls out to him, enveloping him in the growing darkness.

“What are your thoughts on Stannis Baratheon?” Jon halts at his brother’s calculated words that pierce through him like arrows finding their targets. “I hear you came to know him well during his time at the Wall.”

Robb remarks this casually yet pointedly like he’s digging for something. The unease in Jon grows as he slowly turns and faces his brother, tensing from the scrutiny he suddenly feels that he is under.

“Not very well,” Jon tautly answers. “He didn’t remain at Castle Black for long. He had his eyes firmly set on obtaining the Iron Throne. Nothing was going to stand in his way of that goal.”

Robb nods once with puckered lips but Jon is still unsettled by the sudden interest in a man who should mean nothing to either of them now.

“Yes, I heard he was willing to do _anything_ to win the war.” Robb’s guarded tone has Jon precariously on edge not knowing where the drop will be or how swift a fall. “Conspiring with a fanatic sorceress to kill his own blood, burning human sacrifices – his own daughter among them, or so I hear.”

Jon winces and suddenly he’s no longer in the crypts of Winterfell but instead in the courtyard of Castle Black as Mance Rayder was set of fire for all to see. He can still feel the heat of that blazing inferno as the flames licked up Mance’s body as he struggled futilely against his bindings. The sear of burning flesh as that sickening stench filled his nostrils until it was the only thing he could smell, even days later. The harrowing screams of agony as Mance burned. Screams so earth-shattering they haunted Jon’s dreams for weeks afterward.

It is only Robb’s voice that drags him from his memories and back into the present.

“I hear he was quite the expert in turning friend against friend and _brother _against _brother.”_

Apprehension swirls in Jon’s stomach as he looks into Robb’s eyes and sees nothing familiar there.

“As I said,” he slowly repeats through gritted teeth. “I did not know him very well.”

With a cheerless nod, Robb turns away fully from Jon and goes back to looking at their father’s statue. When he speaks next, his voice is distant. “You were right; it has been a long night. Feel free to go. I will stay here a while longer.”

Jon has been around enough powerful men to know when he is being excused. Biting his tongue, he does as Robb says and takes his leave. He doesn’t stop until he comes to the foot of the stairs that will lead him to the world above. Try as he might, he can’t make himself walk up those stairs and leave things as they are.

Sighing softly and agitatedly running a hand through his bound hair, he swings his head around and looks back down the hall to where Robb stands in the wavering shadows of the crypts.

The way the shadows engulf Robb’s face makes him seem like a stranger. And this stranger who wears his brother’s face disquiets Jon. For as long as he can remember, Jon and Robb had always been two sides of the same coin. As children, they had been so in tune with one another that they had created their own secret language of looks and hand signals and had happily lived in their own world, unbothered by anything that wasn’t them and their many adventures.

A world that no longer exists.

There were moments of kinship tonight, where their beings spoke to one another and understood the other in return, but those moments had been far and fleeting, beset by awkward pauses and wary prodding and poking.

Jon wants to go to his brother and fling himself at his feet, heart in hand as he explains…_everything_ to him. The last ten years they have been apart and the challenges Jon has faced and the failures that have followed him. He wants to go to Robb and promise him that he’ll be the brother that Robb wishes him to be. He will be whatever he can be to Robb so long as he gets to remain at his side.

But he cannot.

Because if he starts speaking now he fears he will never stop. And all his shame and misery will be known to Robb. As will the love Jon still carries for him that cannot be erased or set aside. And Jon cannot bear his brother knowing such godless things.

Jon cannot go to him.

He is only honoring the decision he had made ten years ago. And some decisions have to be endured no matter how heartbreaking the pain they inflict. With such thoughts weighing him down like an anchor, Jon somehow finds the strength and forces his feet up the stairs and away from Robb and the ghosts of their past dancing around the crypts. 

When he emerges topside, the cool breeze ruffles his hair and sidles around him but he pays it no mind as he marches through the darkness of Winterfell. He avoids the continuing merriment occurring in the Great Hall and wanders aimlessly through the sprawling keep.

He doesn’t know how long he walks until he eventually ends up where he started: his new bedchambers. He has half a mind to lay his head down elsewhere for the night to avoid the room and the memories it evokes for him. But he pushes through his reservations and slips in through the door, leaving it open a crack behind him.

The room is as he left it though the bathtub is missing and the armchairs are once more in their rightful place in front of the smoldering fire as the wood crackles. Lit candles are spread throughout the chamber, illuminating the space with a warm, golden glow.

Jon’s heart lightens to see Ghost basking in the rolling heat at the fireplace, sprawled out with his white limbs spread every which way. Clearly, the direwolf hasn’t a care in the world. He comes up to his faithful companion, dropping to his knees beside him as he buries his fingers into the sleek, snowy fur.

“You’re happy to be home; aren’t you, boy?” he quietly asks and is answered as Ghost pants blissfully, his red tongue lolling out of his mouth as he enjoys Jon’s attention.

“I wish I shared your optimism,” Jon softly admits as he stares into the fire, his fingers idly scratching Ghost’s ear. “I fear we have stepped into something we do not truly understand. I fear we have come to a dangerous place.”

Home should fill one with a sense of peace. And Jon has felt little to no peace in the hours he’s been back inside the walls of Winterfell. Something is being kept from him and he cannot understand what. He does not know what part he has to play in it all

Tiredly, he rises to his feet, ignoring the popping of his knees as he does so. He’s wearily stretching his arms above his head when his eyes take notice of something small on the mantle that he hadn’t noticed before.

When he finally recognizes it, he sucks in a deep breath and slowly reaches out for it, cupping the wooden figurine in his rough hands.

It’s a wolf.

It isn’t much to look at and it isn’t impressively made. The whittled wood was clumsily shaved by small, amateurish hands that had determinedly kept going even when they had made a mistake. The rustic, little wolf has his head reared back as he howls to an invisible moon.

The figure is Jon’s own creation.

He had made it for Robb for his brother’s 10th name day.

A tremulous smile curls across Jon’s face as he runs his finger over the grooves of the wood, tracing the lines that were meant to be the wolf’s fur.

Jon had spent weeks carving this toy for Robb. He must have made numerous wolves before deciding that this one was the best of the lot. It had been grueling work and he had nicked his thumb more than once during the arduous carving process. He had wanted to give up more times than he could count but something in him had forced him to keep at it. Until it was as perfect as it could be, all things considered.

It hadn’t been until after Robb’s name day dinner, with all his favorite treats, late at night when everyone else in the castle was sleeping, that Jon had worked up the courage to sneak into Robb’s room and present him with his handmade gift. He had almost expected his brother to laugh at the present because what could be so remarkable about a clunky piece of wood?

But Robb hadn’t laughed. He had looked like Jon had gifted him the sun as his fingers trailed over the figurine, eyes wide as saucers as he held it up to the candlelight to carefully inspect every angle of it. Then he had slapped it down onto his bedside table where it remained for the rest of their childhood, the first thing Robb saw in the morning and the last thing he looked at before falling asleep.

That had tickled Jon so much that he wouldn’t have been surprised to find out he was already half-way in love with Robb, young as he was.

And now…now it’s here. In Jon’s new chambers. Somehow, against all the odds, it had survived the destruction the Ironborn had wrought on Winterfell. Not even a sacking and a fire had destroyed it.

It is true what they say about the Starks. They endure. They always have.

A tinkering shrill of laughter cuts through Jon’s musings as he blinkingly comes back to his senses. Setting the toy back on the mantelpiece, he swiftly and mutely creeps towards his cracked door to investigate the disturbance out in the hall. Remaining in the shadows of his room, he peeks through the sliver of his doorway and peers out.

It’s Jeyne, flushed from a night of dancing and celebration, giggling happily at a joke of her own making, and swaying from side to side as she is escorted to her rooms with Robb and Sabina attentively shepherding her.

“Tonight was beautiful, wasn’t it?” she sleepily asks as her head plops onto Robb’s shoulder and he quickly wraps an arm around her waist to keep her upright.

“It was indeed,” he agrees with a good-natured huff as he supports her burgeoning weight.

“We should have feasts more often. Don’t you agree, Sabina?” Jeyne asks her closest friend like it’s the most important question in the world.

Sabina’s lips turn up in an amused smirk as she nods along with Jeyne’s ramblings. “We should. The more the merrier I say.”

“Me too,” Jeyne laughingly concurs. The merry trio stop at the halfway point between the Lord’s and Lady’s Chambers. Robb is all smiles as he leans down towards Jeyne’s stomach, his hands settling on her belly as his fingers spread out.

“Goodnight, my little bump,” he tenderly whispers before dropping a kiss to the rounded stomach. He stands and takes Jeyne’s heart-shaped face in his large hands, placing a loving kiss on her forehead which has her nose scrunching up in delight and her dimples appearing in full force.

“And goodnight to you, dear wife.”

The smile remains on his face as he inclines his head to his wife’s lady-in-waiting. “I leave her in your capable hands.”

He hands her off easily enough to Sabina as the female pair disappears into the Lady’s Chambers and Robb slips into the adjoining Lord’s. Pregnant women often like to sleep without their husband pawing at them, someone once told Jon in passing. He remembers that Lady Stark frequently slept alone during her pregnancies, finding it hard enough to sleep with babies constantly kicking her; she could do without the added nuisance of her husband’s snoring.

When the hall is silent, Jon retreats to the secure confines of his room, leaving the door open behind him in his haste to move away from what he had witnessed. Sighing, he slowly goes about undressing. He carefully removes the grey doublet, folding and setting it aside for use another day. Though it seems too fine a garment for everyday wear. If Jeyne gets her way, they’ll have more feasts in their future. The thought has him lightly snorting.

He’s just stripped down into his smallclothes – breeches and an unlaced tunic that exposes the majority of his chest with its open ‘V’ – when he hears his chamber door slowly creak open. Pivoting around, Jon’s ready to fend off an intruder but he instantly relaxes when he sees that it is only Grey Wind.

“Grey Wind,” he greets as the nimble direwolf ambles into the room. “What are you doing here, boy?”

Grey Wind – predictably – doesn’t answer but makes his way further into the chambers, feeling right at home. He should, he had lived here as a pup when these were Robb’s rooms.

Ghost has roused himself at the presence of his brother and his red, unblinking eyes stare for a long moment before he turns away, putting his head down with a little sniff of his black snout. The albino direwolf lets out a mighty yawn as his teeth gleam in the firelight. The three weeks of traveling have taken their toll on him as well, it seems. Jon grins at the thought. Neither one is as young as they used to be.

Taking a page from Ghost’s book, Jon prepares for bed. He douses all the candles until the only source of light is the blazing fire that warms the entire room. Traveling through the dimness, he splashes his face with refreshingly cool water from a basin, dabbing the wetness away with a hand towel.

When he can’t avoid it any longer, he cautiously shuffles his way to the four-poster bed. There’s really no way of avoiding it unless he wishes to sleep on the unforgiving, stone floor.

Exhaling deeply, Jon pushes aside the sheets and furs and slips beneath them as he lies on a mattress he hasn’t rested on in ten years. It’s just as luxuriously soft as he remembers. Groaning, Jon tucks himself into the bed – trying not to pay attention to the fact that he subconsciously placed himself on _his _side of the bed, leaving Robb’s side noticeably absent.

Punching his pillow a few times until it is just right, Jon finally settles down and closes his eyes, hoping sleep will quickly claim him. His eyes fly open when a massive weight jumps onto the bed, causing the sturdy frame to lament in protest. Peering through the darkness, Jon sees Grey Wind’s agile body wriggling up the mattress.

“Really?” Jon asks in a bemused voice as the direwolf settles along Jon’s side, making himself right at home in Jon’s bed. After Ghost, Grey Wind is the direwolf Jon spent the most time with growing up – if only because Jon and Robb were attached at the hips and wherever they went their direwolves were sure to follow. But, still, Grey Wind has never been the most affectionate animal to anyone other than Robb. And now – gods help him – he looks like he’s trying to _cuddle_ with Jon. Will wonders ever cease tonight?

“Settle down, boy,” Jon orders as he blindly reaches out and pats Grey Wind’s head as the direwolf keeps worming about. The furs have pooled at Jon’s waist and his opened tunic has slid to the side, exposing the gnarly scars littered across his chest. Even in the growing darkness, Grey Wind’s sharp eyes catch sight of them and the animal tenses and begins to growl, his fur sticking up on end in thinly veiled aggression.

“Peace, Grey Wind,” Jon murmurs with closed eyes as he soothingly runs his fingers through the direwolf’s coarse fur. “It was a long time ago and they do not hurt anymore.”

Physically, at least. But that’s a story for another time.

Mollified somewhat by Jon’s shushing, Grey Wind gives up his snarling and sets his head down on Jon’s chest, right atop his scars. The air is nearly squeezed out of Jon’s lungs from the unexpected weight, but he knows the animal will not be moved. He’s as stubborn as his human counterpoint.

Now pinned to the bed by an unruly direwolf, Jon’s eyes slip shut as his body begins to settle into the rhythmic pattern of sleep. All around him, the world is alight with noises that only could come from Winterfell.

He hears the snapping of the logs as they burn in the fireplace. Outside, the wind whips throughout the towers of the castle, wailing like a woman’s mournful cry. In the far distance, wolves cry out from the Wolfswood in a chilling melody. In the hallway, the steady footsteps of Robb’s Kingsguard patrol the perimeter ensuring the safety of the Stark family. The odd snuffle and whimper comes from Ghost as he peacefully sleeps on the floor.

All these recognizable and intimate noises lull Jon into a deep, dreamless sleep within the protective walls of Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't help but laugh at myself for ever thinking this monster of a story could ever be a one-shot. Oh, what a naive summer child I was. Haha. Literally, this thing keeps growing and growing. For now, I'm pretty positive it will be seven or eight chapters, but, honestly? Who knows. This story seems to have a life of its own. We'll see where it takes us. 
> 
> Robb's feast outfit is his Red Wedding outfit just in a plum color. I know the Northerners aren't big into colors because they really don't have the money to flaunt it, but as you can see Robb is building a more prosperous North and while they will never be as rich as the Lannisters, they can add some finery to their lives. Especially since the Starks are now royalty. They need to look the part from time to time. 
> 
> Hopefully, you all can see where Jon is coming from in this chapter and don't completely hate him and his warped decision-making skills. From the moment he's received Robb's pardon at Castle Black, he's been winding himself up into knots trying to make sense of it all and he just can't understand why any of this is happening and the poor guy is spiraling. He came back to Winterfell with his mind forcibly made up in regards to how things will be between him and Robb and the stress of being back, and as many of you have pointed out - being thrown into the deep end by Robb himself (though it most likely comes from a place of good intention) is messing with Jon's head. And he is reacting to it all. Rather poorly. Remember, he's bringing ten years' worth of baggage to the table and that baggage is majorly clouding how he perceives everything happening around him. 
> 
> In my mind, Jon and Robb bring out the best and worst in each other. They spent their entire childhoods together, so they understand each other in a way no one else can. When they are in sync and tuned into each other, there's nothing they cannot achieve between them. But when they can't get a read on the other? Well. Things get messy. And they lash out at the other. The things discussed in the crypts will be important down the road. At least, on the surface. 
> 
> The rest of this story is an exercise in Jon and Robb not communicating with one another. And how everything falls to shit because of it. I did promise angst. 
> 
> Also, the Starks are wargs in this story. So I'm not saying that was Robb in Grey Wind's body trying to get cuddle time in with Jon. But I'm also not _not_ saying that. You feel me?
> 
> I wish I was cool enough to have thought of the White Knife Canal and the western fleet on my own, but I was actually inspired by this tumblr post on an economic development plan for the North. if you have a minute, you should check it out. It's very thorough and insightful! https://racefortheironthrone.tumblr.com/post/126153637681/the-norths-economic-development-plan
> 
> I made up the names for the Blaze River (because it's off the Blazewater Bay) and Bitter Lake. During my research, I couldn't find any definitive names for these bodies of water in the North. If I'm wrong and they do have real names, I am happy to go back and fix it. 
> 
> Thank you so much for all the comments for the last chapter! Every single one made me smile and giddy. All of you supporting this story truly are the best. Please let me know what you think of this newest entry. Does the private reunion live up to the public one? Do we all want to bang Jon's head into a wall? What exactly did Robb want to talk about in the crypts? Heck if I know! :)


	5. the places we should have never left

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I'm the worst for taking so long to update! :((((( Please forgive me!

Even in the blissful embrace of sleep, Jon feels like he is cushioned on a sumptuous cloud. Everything is so deliciously soft and his body has never been more relaxed as he sinks deeper into the springy coils of obscurity. What nearly has him purring like a cat stretched out in the sunlight is the distant – yet incredibly soothing – feeling of soft fingers carding through his messy array of curls. 

“Mmm, Robb,” he sleepily murmurs as he rolls onto his side and nuzzles deeper into his pillow, “that tickles.”

Through the haze of his sleep-addled brain, Jon hears a high-pitched giggle that most definitely did _not _come from Robb.

Eyes snapping open, Jon forcibly awakens and finds that the cloud he was floating on in his dreams is actually his bed back in Winterfell. Cautiously, he turns his head, nearly half-afraid of discovering who will be there next to him.

It is Jyanna.

The toddler is sitting next to him atop his furs, her sock-covered toes wiggling as she peers down at him with her grey eyes. She’s outfitted in a pale blue dress with cloth knots woven around the collar. Working its way up and down the sleeves are delicately embroidered morning glories with their dark blue petals and yellow centers as leafy, green vines curl among the flowers. Above them, small, beaded bees buzz about in search of nectar.

“Um…” Jon awkwardly flounders as he pulls his covers closer to him like some kind of shield against the small child. If only Tormund could see him now. He’d be cackling at the sight of Jon so cowed by a harmless three-year-old. “Hello?”

It’s not every day he wakes up with a child staring him down. The last time that had happened had probably been Arya, who had frequently snuck into his room at ungodly times of the morning to kick him awake so that he could show her some moves and tricks with the sword before her mother was up and on the prowl.

Jyanna shares none of his discomforts as she reaches out and resumes her petting of his curly tresses. “Pretty hair,” she coos, tongue sticking out in concentration and against his will, Jon’s lips twitch up into an acquiescing smile.

“Thank you,” he tells her as he allows her childlike ministrations. “I like yours as well.” Her chestnut hair is braided into matching pigtails tied off with yellow ribbons into drooping, lopsided bows. It is a usual Northern hairstyle for young girls. Arya had often sported it when she was younger, though gods-help poor Septa Mordane who had to wrangle his spitfire of a sister into sitting still long enough to have her unruly hair brushed and braided.

The girl giggles in delight, her crooked baby teeth appearing from behind her smile. Slowly, Jon raises himself to his elbows and chances a glance towards the windows. The sun’s already high in the overcast sky as it battles through flimsy clouds trying to block its golden rays. It is late morning, possibly already verging into early afternoon.

He must have slept twelve or more hours. He can’t remember the last time he ever slept so long in a single setting while not being partially unconscious due to injuries or exhaustion. Those three weeks on the road had been more grueling on his body than he had anticipated.

Chiming in as a reminder of his long slumber, his stomach grumbles lowly in feeble protest for going so many hours without sustenance. Jyanna’s eyes widen as she looks down at his revolting abdomen.

“Your tummy’s talking,” she politely informs him and he lets out a little snort at her matter-of-fact tone. She’s definitely a Stark.

“Aye, it is,” he agrees with her assessment as he sits up and runs a hand through his disarrayed hair. “I think it’s hungry.”

Jyanna, young as she is, seriously thinks over his words before nodding once, her little head looking ready to roll off her fragile shoulders from the force of it.

“You missed breakfast,” she mentions as her fingers entangle themselves into the furs as she lightly tugs on them. “There was bacon. It was crispy.”

Jon’s stomach rumbles again, very put out at the prospect of missing out on bacon. It was a luxury rarely afforded for the men of the Night’s Watch. “Was it? How many pieces did you have?”

The toddler snickers as she holds up four wobbly fingers for him to count. “Four, but Mama only said to have three.”

She whispers the words like she’s telling him the world’s greatest secret before she dissolves into playful giggles again, Jon joining in with a laugh of his own. In his years at Castle Black, he had forgotten how amusing children could be when given the chance. He’s only been awake for five minutes and Jyanna has already brightened his day with her carefree babbling.

“Don’t worry,” he conspiratorially whispers back though no one is eavesdropping on the unlikely pair, “I won’t tell anyone.”

“Pinky swear?” she solemnly asks with her little finger held up to him. Jon snorts again but keeps his face serious as he nods.

“Pinky swear,” he echoes as his pinky, nearly three times the size of hers, wraps around her small digit as they shake, sealing the secret between them. Movement at the end of his bed has both looking as Ghost’s large head appears; his red eyes taking in the sight of the two humans camped together.

Jyanna gasps at the sight of the snow-white direwolf. “Wolfie. Wolfie,” she chants as she quickly hops down from his bed and starts tottering towards Ghost with a single-minded purpose. Jon quickly throws back the sheets and furs, following after the young girl as he jumps out of bed. The stone floor beneath his bare feet is pleasantly heated from the hot springs surging through the floors and walls of Winterfell.

Ghost has never misbehaved around children before but Jon remains cautiously apprised of the situation as he comes to her side, acting as a buffer between her and the wolf. As noble and passive as the direwolves can act, woe to anyone who forgets that they are indeed wild animals and that the Starks do not control them.

“This is Ghost,” he slowly introduces the two as he keeps a secure hand on Jyanna’s shoulder to keep her from pouncing.

“Ghost,” she slowly repeats with emphasis on the ‘t’, sounding out the name on her tongue as she stares at the direwolf with her transfixed eyes.

“If you slowly put your hand out he might just sniff you,” Jon kindly advises and watches as Jyanna does so, her little hand coming to rest in front of Ghost’s snout. The direwolf, after staring at her for a beat, lowers his head to sniff at the proffered hand as he takes his time smelling the new human. Jyanna remains still, laughing a little as Ghost’s warmth breath puffs over her hand as he exhales.

Finding no danger afoot, Ghost paws forward, gently nudging her small head with his larger nose as his rough tongue swipes out and licks her cheek. Jyanna erupts into happy laughter as she accepts the sloppy affection. She pets Ghost’s head as his tail eagerly wags like a housedog.

“So soft,” she compliments as her fingers twine into his white fur.

“Aye, he is,” Jon agrees with a small smile as he watches his niece interact with his most faithful friend. “Softer than his brother Grey Wind.”

“I love Grey Wind,” Jyanna idly tells him as she continues petting Ghost. “He’s my best-_best_ friend.”

“Best-_best_ friend?” Jon questions with a raised eyebrow as he loosely crosses his arms over his chest. “Lucky fellow.”

When she’s contented herself with petting Ghost, Jyanna turns to Jon and makes a simple command. “Me ride Ghost.”

Jon’s jaw drops. _“R-Ride_ him? Like a horse?”

Ghost may be the size of a pony but he doesn’t have the temperament of one. Jon knows that legends abound of the Young Wolf having ridden into battle on Grey Wind’s back but he’s chalked that up to rumors more than anything else. Jon’s pretty sure if he ever attempted to sit astride Ghost he’d be knocked off and flung into the nearest snowbank for his troubles.

“Yes,” Jyanna tells him with some added force. “Ghost ride.”

Jon sighs and tiredly rubs a hand over his face. It’s far too early in the day for this. “Jyanna, Ghost is a wild animal, not a horse to be ridden whenever you want to.”

“Ghost ride!” she heatedly replies as she stomps her little foot down. “I do it with Grey Wind.”

Jon weakly snorts. He can hardly imagine that Grey Wind would allow himself to be so _domesticated._ But, then again, Jon imagines Grey Wind is just as in love with the children as Robb is. And probably is just as much as a pushover.

“Un’le Jon,” she beseeches him as her lips jut out into a perfect pout with the bottom one quivering for added effect. Her hands are clasped together right beneath her chin as she peers up at him with her beguiling eyes. _“Please.”_

Jon Snow is a hard man of the North. The years at the Wall have chilled him into ice itself. He’s fought and he’s killed and…the walls around his heart completely crumple and turn to dust due to a three-year-old. Gods, Jon’s putty in her hands and all it took were three blasted words. Sighing, he looks between her and Ghost who remains silent and serene as always.

“You sure you do this with Grey Wind?” he weakly asks, already knowing the outcome of this particular battle even as he tries to fight it. This is more demoralizing than the Free Folk’s attack on Castle Black.

_“All_ the time,” she reassures him with a nodding head. Jon drops his head in defeat as Jyanna claps in victory. That girl will be a handful one day, he just knows it. Feeling sorry for the headaches Robb will surely endure on Jyanna’s behest, Jon looks to Ghost, mind made up.

“Alright.” He slips an arm around Jyanna and lifts her up as she squirms excitedly in his grip, little legs kicking about in glee. He slowly sets her on Ghost’s back as the direwolf does nothing but calmly shifts from foot to foot as the young girl settles on him.

“Be careful,” Jon warns as she buries her fingers into Ghost’s fur, creating makeshift reins. “Don’t pull too sharply; you don’t want to hurt him.”

“I won’t hurt him,” she promises him as she gives Ghost’s head a light pat. Jon walks around Ghost, analyzing him critically to ensure the girl’s safety. When he gets near Ghost’s head, he leans down a bit.

“Don’t drop her,” he whispers out of the corner of his mouth. He is met with an insulted glare from the direwolf who takes a quick nip at Jon’s fingers, affronted at such an offense. Scowling, Jon stands to his full height and lets the chips fall where they will. He steps back from Ghost as Jyanna gives him a little nudge forward with her foot and Ghost begins moving around the room. His sleek shoulders shift and bend gracefully as he walks. Jyanna securely remains atop him, beaming and grinning as she directs Ghost with light tugs on his fur.

Ghost saunters to the open door and slips out into the hall, Jyanna’s loud cheers goading him on. Jon watches the pair go as he leans against his doorframe, legs crossed at the ankles and arms across his chest.

“Bye, Un’le Jon!” Jyanna yells back to him, waving madly as they disappear around the corner, her goofy and mindless chatter echoing after her. Jon doesn’t know how long he remains there with an upbeat smile plastered to his face before he finally shakes himself out of his revelry and turns back into his chambers.

His soiled traveling clothes lay about the floor in an untidy fashion from when he had giddily stripped them off for his bath yesterday. With a sigh, he goes about collecting them, ready to throw them in the basket in the corner that will be taken by chambermaids sometime soon to be cleaned.

As he lifts up his stained jerkin, he notices something fall out of it, fluttering to the stone floor. Bending down, he picks up the wrinkled parchment and sees Sam’s familiar handwriting, smudged from weeks on the road.

_I-I was hoping…well, that you could give this to Gilly – if you happen to see her, that is! _

Sam’s hesitant words echo in Jon’s head and for a moment it’s like Sam is right next to him, face earnest and eyes hopeful. It only makes Jon miss Sam that much more as he wishes his friend could be here with him. Jon could use his counsel right about now. During his travels, Jon had many excuses to push aside his thoughts of the Wall, Castle Black, and the men that inhabit it. But now, now it’s all he can think about as he stands here in his new room at Winterfell.

Sam had asked this of Jon because he trusted Jon to see the matter through. Jon wouldn’t let Sam down when he needed him most. Mind resolved, Jon clutches the letter tightly in his hand as he stands. He quickly goes about his morning routine; splashing cool water on his weary face as it wipes the sleep from his eyes.

He dresses in some of the new clothes that have been provided for him. Throwing on trousers and an undershirt before he slips into a quilted, brown leather gambeson with a high collar that he reckons was made by hand with how fine the detailing is. The brown lacing crisscrosses up his chest through grommets as he does the same to the cuffs at his arms. He pulls his hair back into a little bun, trying it up with a leather band. He ties his belt around his waist and after a moment of debate, attaches Longclaw to his hip. That sword has been on his person every day for the last ten years. It is a hard habit to break even if they are in a time of peace and prosperity. One never knew how close danger was lurking.

With Sam’s letter securely tucked into his gambeson, Jon departs his quarters ready to track down a certain person. His stomach growls again and with a curse, Jon changes his path. He can find Gilly _after_ he’s eaten something.

Food has long ago been cleared from the Great Hall as everyone has broken their fast and gone about their day, so Jon lets his feet guide him to the kitchens where he can most likely pluck some scraps from unsuspecting cooks. It had been a favorite hobby of the Stark children when they were young to see who could gather the most goodies from the kitchens without being caught. They’d scamper off with rich honey cakes, sweet strawberry-rhubarb tarts, and gooey apple rolls covered in a thick, caramel sauce grasped tightly in their grubby hands.

As Jon enters the spacious kitchens with its stone vaulted ceilings, he is hit with a strong blast of heat that has his toes curling in his boots as it washes over him. There are numerous lit fireplaces and ovens with food cooking inside. The cookery is bustling with life and activity as cooks and servants shuffle about like bees within a hive, darting in and out of doors that are attached to the adjoining buttery, bottlery, pantry, and storerooms. 

He makes sure to stay out of passing servants’ ways, ignoring the hushed whispers and looks being tossed at him from nosey attendants. He ventures around with sharp eyes looking for something to nibble on, if only to shut up his noisy stomach. He spies a cauldron of porridge bubbling over an open fire and investigates it, using the ladle resting within it to inspect the soggy gruel. While it looks vastly appealing in comparison to the pottage given at Castle Black, it still does nothing for him as his nose scrunches up and he drops the spoon back into the depths of the pot.

He spins around as his eyes narrow onto a tray of a soft and buttery shortbread slathered in a mouthwatering honey-caramel sauce. It’s a secret that Jon will take with him to the grave, but he’s always had a bit of a sweet tooth. As a child, he could have lived off sweets and goodies and would rather have eaten them than his vegetables. Unfortunately for him, his lord father had never been swayed by his pouting and made sure Jon’s diet was much more balanced.

Stomach grumbling again, Jon slowly sneaks towards the tray resting on a shelf as it cools off. Surely no one will notice if one – _or four_ – pieces of shortbread mysteriously go missing. His outstretched hand is just about to close around the dessert when a wooden spoon smacks down on his knuckles.

“Don’t you dare be stealin’ my cakes, Jon Snow!” a sonorous voice booms. Like a puppy with its tail between its legs, Jon guiltily turns to the person in question and his eyes widen in surprise as he sees who is standing before him with a stern face and her hands resting on her hips.

“Marna?” he hoarsely questions, not truly believing what he is seeing. But it really is Marna – or Mama Marna as the Stark children had always called her. She’s been a cook at Winterfell longer than Jon has been alive. Short and stout – _“I’m built like a teapot, my dears,”_ she’d always joke with a jolly laugh – with frizzy, ginger hair escaping from her cap, she’s exactly as Jon remembers her. Though not entirely, he can see white hair beginning to form at her temples, a sign of the ten years that have passed since he'd last seen her. She also has more wrinkles added to her round face but her smile is just as welcoming as it had always been.

“Aye, it is,” she tells him as she wipes her hands on her apron and then expectantly holds out her arms. “Come and give me a hug and kiss, lad, or I’ll slap you upside your thick head.”

Jon doesn’t have to be told twice. He lets the older woman sweep him up into a rib-breaking embrace. When she pulls back he stays accommodatingly still as she examines him with her scrutinizing gaze, _tsking _all the while underneath her breath.

“You’re too skinny,” she announces with a cluck of her tongue, lips pursing into a displeased frown as she eyes him. “Do they not feed you at the Wall, boy?”

Jon weakly snorts as he offers up a half-shrug. “Not very well.”

Marna’s frown only grows. “That won’t do. That won’t do at all. And you haven’t broken your fast yet, have you?” She doesn’t even wait for Jon to answer before she begins shoving him to the long table in the middle of the kitchen. “Unacceptable. Go and take a seat and let Marna fix you up, you hear?”

She bustles away, her skirts swishing behind her as she moves quickly through the kitchens like a hummingbird in flight, hopping from flower to flower, gathering food and plopping it down onto a plate. Jon plunks down onto the wooden bench and lets his hands rest idly on the table as he waits. Only seconds later, a plate is dropped down in front of him as it rattles on the tabletop. Jon’s nearly frothing at the mouth just looking at it, his stomach once again taking up its ravenous melody.

There are bread slices, still warm to the touch as creamy butter melts into them with blackberry preserves plentifully spread atop. Beside them is a rasher of bacon just as crispy as Jyanna promised. A wedge of cheese is squished onto the plate and beside it—

“Kidney pies?” he asks in a strangled voice as he subconsciously licks his lips.

“With peas and onions,” Marna supplies him as she fiddles with her apron, “your favorite. And fresh out of the oven to boot. Now get eating, that’s an order.”

Jon doesn’t hesitate. He grabs a kidney pie and bites into it, moaning aloud as the savory flavors explode in his mouth.

“You’re a goddess,” he applauds her, talking with his mouth full but manners are the last thing on his mind as he digs into his meal. It’s quiet as he eats as he is not one to make conversation while shoveling food into his mouth at a great speed. Marna doesn’t seem to mind, she’s taken up shop at the table as she goes about chopping onions, celery, and potatoes. He’s willing to bet that they’ll be having some kind of stew for dinner.

He’s just finished his plate and is licking the crumbs from his fingers when he notices two girls in the corner of the kitchens. They can’t be more than 15 or 16, with their pretty heads bent close together as they whisper excitedly to one another. As soon as they catch sight of Jon glancing their way, they break into loud giggles before scurrying away, batting their eyes at him as they go. Jon slouches as he watches them run off and with a sigh, he pushes the empty plate away. He had known being back at Winterfell would bring its own difficulties, but he could do without the incessant staring like he was some kind of oddity.

“What’s got you looking so glum?” Marna asks as she follows his gaze just in time to see the girls race off, their coltish laughter faintly tinkering behind them. “Ah, not surprising. You’ve always been quite pretty, my dear. More than one serving girl has swooned over you in my lifetime.”

Jon bristles in place even as he fights the embarrassed blush he feels creeping across his face. “I am _not_ pretty. Handsome, maybe. But pretty? I’m not a girl.”

Marna chuckles as she shakes her head. “Dear, you’re prettier than all my daughters combined.” She laughs harder when she sees Jon sullenly grimace. “Though that scraggly beard hanging from your chin is not doing your face any favors.”

“Hey!” Jon protests, oddly protective of his facial hair. In part due to the fact that when he had left Winterfell as a green boy he had been incapable of growing a proper beard. At best, he had patchy stubble working its way up and down his cheeks. It had been quite the humiliation for him. “It can’t look that bad.”

He rubs his chin, wondering if she speaks truly. He’d hate to look as unruly and as wild as Tormund, who most likely hasn’t cut his beard anytime this century.

“It could use a trim, my dear,” Marna insists as she reaches out and lightly slaps his cheek. He grunts and considers her words. Perhaps a trim would be in order. He could go to Tommy; if Tommy is still the barber at Winterfell, that is. Although, if Tommy so much as touches a hair atop his head…

Tabling such thoughts for later, Jon gets to the heart of the matter as he feels Sam’s letter crinkling in the inner pocket of his gambeson. “Marna,” he says and waits until he has her attention before continuing, “do you know of any servants named Gilly? Or any women of that name living in Wintertown or any of the surrounding villages?”

When Sam had resolved to remain at Castle Black instead of going to Oldtown to train as a maester, the harder decision had to be made to send Gilly and her son away. The Night’s Watch was no place for a woman and a baby. Her being there had been a bundle of kindling only waiting for a strike of flint to erupt into a catastrophic flame. Though many of Jon’s brothers had been good men, men he would trust with his life, many more had been vile and loathsome criminals who would have no qualms in raping a defenseless woman for sport.

Mole’s Town also hadn’t been the proper place for Gilly and Little Sam, much as they had wished to stay near the Wall. In the end, it had been Jon’s suggestion to send her south to Winterfell. Robb had still been eradicating the Ironborn from the North, but once he was done he would take up his place in his ancestral home and even though Winterfell was still a ruin at the time, it would be in need of servants once it was rebuilt.

Jon had written a letter and given it to Gilly, urging her to go to his brother and seek employment in his household with his letter serving as a recommendation. By the time a response had arrived at Castle Black weeks later, Jon had already been in the Gift with the Free Folk. Sam had read it instead and relayed to Jon that it was a simple letter – written by another servant with a better hand at the Common Tongue – that detailed that Gilly had been accepted into Robb’s employ.

That was years ago, Jon has no idea if she still lives and works in Winterfell or has ventured elsewhere in the North. She could very well have sought her fortunes south of the Neck where it was warmer and resources were more plentiful. Sam’s letter hangs heavy like an anchor against Jon’s breast as he awaits Marna’s answer.

“Gilly?” the older woman muses as she racks her brain. Suddenly her face lights up in recognition. “Oh! Yes, sweet, little gillyflower. The wildling girl. Aye, she works here as a laundress.”

After the initial rush of relief, Jon frowns as he intently asks, “She’s being treated well? No one is causing her any problems because she is a Free Folk?”

Northerners were a stubborn lot of people and they had been harboring prejudices against the Free Folk for more than 8000 years. It had taken years and a tremendous amount of energy and effort just to have the two disparate groups agree to their _begrudging_ pact of peace. Jon will not tolerate anyone acting out such prejudices on someone as kind and unsuspecting as Gilly.

Marna hums noncommittally as she continues chopping. “There might have been some chatter when she first arrived; some snide comments here or there. You know how unbridled young boys can be when they feel as if they have something to prove to the rest of the world.”

Jon’s frown deepens and taking pity on him Marna lowers her knife and reaches out, lightly squeezing his hand that had subconsciously curled into a fist atop the table.

“Have no fear, my boy. The king put a stop to it and she’s been treated right as rain ever since.”

Jon’s brows knit together in gobsmacked surprise. “Robb did that?” He is so taken aback by Marna’s words that he forgets to give his brother the proper respect he is afforded as a monarch.

“Aye, the king did,” Marna answers with a nod of her head. “He wouldn’t tolerate any disrespect to Miss Gilly and that wildling boy, Balorn, who’s been fostered here these last few years; even if the miscreant is nearly as much a terror as Prince Rickon. I swear by the Old Gods, those two are going to drive me into an early grave.”

Jon nods along even as his mind is far away as he thinks about Gilly and Sam. “Do you know where I could find her?”

Marna stares off into space as she thinks. “Today isn’t a laundry day, so I reckon you could find her in the servants’ quarters looking after the children.”

He thinks nothing of Marna’s offhanded comment. It was common when Jon was growing up behind the safety of Winterfell’s walls, for one or two serving girls to look after the gaggle of children belonging to working mothers who were busy with their duties. It did, after all, take a village to raise a proper, Northern child. When they were younger, Jon and Robb had often played alongside the mob of smallfolk children, running through the courtyards of Winterfell fighting imaginary monsters and dragons at every corner as they pretended to be gallant knights.

With a quick goodbye and thanks for breakfast, Jon takes his leave of Marna and heads out with his destination in mind. He departs from the Great Keep and is met with a cool, spring breeze as it whishes past him, ruffling his bound curls. It must have rained earlier for the ground is more mud than anything else and Jon sinks into with every step he takes as he makes his way through the sprawling grounds of Winterfell.

There are so many people about, all coming and going at their own leisure. Children are running as they laugh and shriek while playing their games. Men and women go about their work, their voices carrying on the wind as they whip past Jon. He had forgotten how much Winterfell was practically a small city in and of itself, but it’s even busier and more crowded than Jon had remembered. All signs of the growing prosperity of Robb’s reign, no doubt. Yet, it somehow still feels akin to when Jon was a boy and he knew every square inch of Winterfell like the back of his hand.

Jon keeps to himself as he walks down the sloping hill towards the separate servants’ quarters. The building is square and squat and built of stone as it houses the various servants of Winterfell and their families, though many live in the neighboring Wintertown. He passes by the lively shops of the butcher and the carpenter, as well as the weaver’s cottage as he takes note of the colorful yarn hanging from the windows. He enters the building and after snaking through halls and tramping up some stairs, he finally finds himself in front of Gilly’s door.

Steeling himself for the task at hand, Jon raises his fist and gently knocks. He shifts his feet as he hears shuffling on the other side of the door and waits until it swings open to reveal Gilly.

She is still as he remembers her. Her long, brown hair falls down her shoulders and frames her face, though half of it is pulled back as a way to keep the long strands out of her eyes. Her warm and expressive brown eyes blink at Jon in surprise as her mouth drops into a gaping ‘o’. She’s wearing a plain but functional grey dress that is well made from a thick, wool material, perfect for keeping her warm in the nippy, spring air of the North.

“Hello Gilly,” Jon greets with a clumsy air. He and Gilly had never spent all that much time together, but he’s always cared about her and her wellbeing if for the simple reason that she was important to Sam, which made her important to Jon. Even so, he is quite taken aback when she springs forward, wrapping her arms around him in a tight hug. He freezes on the spot before slowly bringing his arm up and gently patting her on the back.

She is smiling as she pulls away from him, her eyes beaming as she looks up at him. “I had hoped you would come and see me. I wanted to see you yesterday, but with the feast everything was so chaotic,” she says in her unique accent that isn’t as rough as many of the Free Folk but isn’t as familiar as the brogue of Northerners. It’s something all its own and is purely Gilly’s.

“Well,” Jon lightly shrugs his shoulders, “here I am.”

She briefly smiles as she nods in agreement, “Here you are. Would you like to come in?” She nods towards her quarters as Jon follows her gaze.

“I’d like that.”

She holds the door open and Jon slips past her into the toasty and inviting room. A fire’s blazing in the stone fireplace keeping the outside chill at bay. The room is sparse but serviceable for someone of Gilly’s station with several pallets tucked in the corner, covered in quilted blankets and sheep wool skins. There is a small, round table with a few wooden chairs seated at it. Through the single window, pale sunlight shines in, casting its light across the stone floors. He must have caught Gilly in the middle of her chores, for he spies some unfolded clothes – adult and child – lying on the nearest bed. Toys are scattered about the floor and Jon smiles thinking of Little Sam. He must be eight or so by now, a far cry from the small boy that had left Castle Black clasped to his mother’s breast.

The door clicks shut behind him as Gilly sweeps past him, nervously tidying up the room as she flitters about. “Would you like a cup of tea?” she asks without looking at him as she turns to the fire. His eyes follow and he sees a kettle atop the flame.

He nods once before replying, “That’d be nice, thank you.”

The kettle whistles in warning and Gilly hurries about pulling it from the fire as Jon seats himself down at the table, his hands folded together as he waits in silence. Minutes later, a rustically carved wooden cup is placed down in front of him as steam wafts up from it, twirling into intertwining tendrils before dissipating. Jon’s hands wrap around the cup as he pulls it forward, the heat of the tea sinking into his cold hands and warming them. A lemon slice is bobbing in the liquid as Jon brings the cup up to his mouth and nearly burns his tongue from how scalding hot it is. Even so, the lemon tea is sweet with a dash of honey flavoring it.

He and Gilly slowly drink their tea in silence for several long moments as they eye the other, seemingly waiting for the other to begin the only conversation they want to be having. Gilly, ultimately, has more courage than him when she places her nearly empty cup down and looks him square in the eye.

“How is he?” she plainly asks. It goes unsaid who _he_ is, both Gilly and Jon know. Jon sighs as he pushes his own cup away and links his hands together on the table.

“He’s doing well,” he answers after a beat, taking a moment to collect his thoughts. “He’s proven rather capable as a steward to the Watch’s new maester. He’s practically a maester himself.” Gods willing, he’ll be an actually maester one of these days.

Gilly’s lips curl up into a small smile as one of her fingers trace over the various grooves of the tabletop. “He was always very fond of Maester Aemon,” she recalls with fond remembrance dancing in her dark eyes.

Jon can’t help but smile in agreement. “Aye, he was. And Maester Aemon was fond of him in return. He liked you as well, those moons you spent with him.”

It was Gilly and Sam who had sat diligently at Maester Ameon’s bedside as he peacefully slipped from one world into the next. Of all the great and influential men Jon has known in his life, Maester Aemon is the only one who had been awarded a natural and quiet death. Some part of Jon is distressed that his life, and those who live in it, has known so much violence and terror. During his childhood, he had known nothing but peace and safety, but his adult years have been anything but. His whole world had split apart when he left Winterfell ten years ago. He doesn’t know if he has it in him to pick up the pieces now that he is back.

“He called me his gillyflower,” Gilly recalls with a fond laugh that flows throughout the room like soothing water trickling through a stream. “It always made Sam smile.”

Her smile drops then as she looks at Jon. “How is he, really? Will he be safe at the Wall without you there?”

Jon flinches at her question as he tries to let her words slip off his back. But something tells him that they’ve already taken root in his head and he will not be rid of them for quite some time. “He’s tougher than he looks. He has not needed my protection in years.”

It was true. Sam may have declared himself a craven upon his arrival to Castle Black as a fearful recruit, but he had proven himself a warrior in his years at the Watch. An unconventional warrior who wielded battle with his words and knowledge, but a warrior nonetheless. And, in the end, he had protected Jon more times than Jon could count.

Exhaling, Jon unlaces enough of his gambeson to go digging into the inner pocket as he produces the worn and crimped parchment Sam had charged him with delivering. “When I left Castle Black,” Jon begins as his thumb idly runs over his friend’s neat handwriting, “Sam asked me to give this to you.”

He holds out the letter and isn’t surprised when Gilly all but rips it from his grasp. She tears into, her eyes greedily passing over the unknown words as she silently mouths along, sometimes pausing to wordlessly sound out a word here or there. Jon remains quiet, giving her as much privacy as he can as she pours over Sam’s letter.

Her eyes are watery with tears and her hands trembling when she finally sets the letter down. She begins sniffling and rubbing at her eyes with the sleeve of her dress.

“I-I’m sorry,” she stutters out weakly as her lashes grow thick with tears, “I just miss him so much.”

Jon’s hand shoots across the table as it encloses around Gilly’s much smaller one as he offers up a comforting squeeze. “He misses you too, Gilly.” His own voice is thick with emotion at the injustice of everything that forced Sam and Gilly apart in the first place. The part he played in it, as well. “There’s not a day that goes by where he isn’t thinking about you or Little Sam.”

She squeezes back as the two sit there, holding hands and thinking of someone who’s more than 600 miles away from them, freezing in the tundra and wasteland that is the Wall. Gilly has only just collected herself when the door bursts open and two young boys spill into the room, chasing each other and yelling shrilly.

“Mama! Mama!” the youngest wails as he dives right into Gilly’s skirts, hiding his face from view. “Sammy stole my wooden horse again!”

Gilly sighs in a beleaguered manner, the plight of all mothers with rambunctious, young children, and turns to look at her oldest with a chilled frown. “Sam, I’ve told you a hundred times not to take your brother’s toys. You wouldn’t like if I stole yours, would you?”

The other boy, Sam – he has to be Little Sam, with his wispy blond hair and bright, blue eyes, though he is far bigger than Jon can remember – pouts but comes up to his younger brother’s side and gives him back his little, wooden horse figurine.

“Come on,” he cajoles his brother with a slap to the back, “let’s go play in the corner.”

Though still whimpering, the little boy’s grubby hands wrap around his horse as he holds it protectively to his chest. With a look to Gilly, who nods encouragingly in return, he pushes himself out of his mother’s safe embrace and finally shows his face.

Jon – who had risen to his feet at the initial commotion of the boys entering the room – feels his heart plunge into his stomach at what he sees. He had felt uneasy from the moment he had set his eyes on the _two _boys. Gilly had only had one son when she left Castle Black. He had felt Sam’s worst fears confirmed, that as much as Gilly may love him – and she still loves him, Jon now knows it to be a fact – she still might have moved on, found someone to provide a future for her and Little Sam.

His breath catches in his throat as his eyes quickly categorize everything about the young boy. He can’t be much older than five, with knobby knees and clumsy arms. He has a round and innocent face with red cheeks and his brown eyes lit up. His hair is dark and straight as choppy bangs fall across his forehead. The way his fingers wring together and how he bites down on his lower lip has the air forced from Jon’s lungs.

He is, without a doubt, looking at a miniature Samwell Tarly.

Stunned, Jon’s eyes shoot up to Gilly as she looks at him with a steady gaze, her chin jutted out. She knows he’s figured it out. She sets her hand on Sam’s son’s shoulder as she directs him towards his brother.

“Boys, why don’t you go and play. Mama needs to talk to her friend.”

Both boys hardly pay Jon any attention as they rush to the corner of the room, dropping onto a pallet and beginning to play with the toys lying nearby. Gilly gestures back to the table and Jon falls back into his chair feeling as if his limbs have been weighed down with rocks.

_Pregnant? _

Gilly had been bloody pregnant when she left Castle Black? She must have been for the proof of it is playing with a wooden horse only five feet away from Jon. Jon had known of Sam and Gilly’s physical relationship, if only because Sam hadn’t shut up about it for several weeks afterward to Jon. He had been so proud that any woman could find him desirable, let alone one like Gilly. But, still, a baby? If Sam had any notion that Gilly was carrying _his_ child, nothing would have kept him at Castle Black, not even his loyalty to Jon.

Which means….

“He doesn’t know.” It’s not a question. It’s merely a statement of fact.

Gilly nods as she fiddles with her empty teacup. “He does not.”

Agitated, Jon runs a hand through his hair though he wishes he could tear the strands out instead. He feels anger for Sam, who’s freezing at the Wall never knowing that he has a son of his own. That someone in the world has _his_ blood and is wearing _his_ face and using _his_ mannerisms.

Gods above. Sam has a _son. _

“Gilly,” he hisses in quiet frustration so as not to draw the attention of the two playing boys, “how could you not tell him that he has a child? He has the right to know.”

But Gilly won’t be easily cowed by him and his heated anger. She had let her father cruelly dominate her but since her spirited escape from Craster’s Keep, Gilly has always spoken her mind. This time is no different.

“How could I?” she lowly counters as she shoots a quick look over her shoulder to her children. “You know what would have happened if he knew. He would have deserted the Watch and end up dead for his troubles. Not everyone has a brother for a king to make their oaths simply go away.”

Her rebuke sharply stings but that doesn’t make it any less true. Jon was lucky that he had Robb to pardon him, even if it was something he never asked for. Properly berated, Jon looks away as his lips thin into a repentant frown. He lets out a weary sigh and feels his body sag into the rickety chair he is seated on.

“You’re right,” he softly concedes, “Sam would have deserted had he known. You did the right thing. I am sorry for my words. It wasn’t my place.”

Gilly accepts his apology with a nod. “I am sorry as well. I didn’t mean to throw the king’s kindness in your face like that.”

Jon waves away her words though the murmur of them remains as it echoes through his head. The echo falls away though it intertwines itself with the many questions Jon has had since he received Robb’s pardon. Why did his brother call him home? What is his purpose in Winterfell? What does Robb want from him?

He glances to the corner of the room, his eyes fixed on the cheerful boy playing with his older brother without a care in the world.

“What’s his name?” Jon inquires, realizing that he doesn’t know. He can’t refer to Sam’s child as _the boy_ in his head forever. Gilly’s eyes grow affectionate as she gazes at him with a secret smile.

“His name is Jon Tarly,” she tells him. “I call him Jonny.”

Just when Jon thought all the surprises were done, his world flip-flops again, leaving him tail-spinning in its wake. Gilly named her son – Sam’s son – after _him?_ What could he have ever done to be so worthy as to have a child named after him? Feeling a lump gather in the back of his throat, Jon focuses on the latter part of Jonny’s name.

“Jon…_Tarly_?” he croaks out in a strangled voice.

Gilly nods, unperturbed by his astonishment. Blinking rapidly, he tries to make sense of this whole situation he has flung himself into. Still, he tries to put thought to words.

“In the North, bas—“ he cuts off suddenly, not wanting the word ‘bastard’ to ever be said in conjecture with Sam’s child. “I mean, children like Jon have the name of Snow.”

Jon can hardly fathom having another Jon Snow racing about Winterfell, but it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to share his name with his best friend’s son. And he would do everything in his power to shield Jonny from the world’s twisted outlook on bastards.

Gilly doesn’t give an inch though as she stares him down and proclaims with her head held high, “He has his father’s name, and I won’t let anyone take that from him.”

Jon nods, knowing a losing battle when he sees one. Not that he wishes to fight her on this matter. He knows that this is what Sam would want if he knew of Jonny’s existence. He would give his Tarly name, even if the Watch made it so it wasn’t his to give away, to his son even if he couldn’t marry Gilly as he wished.

“Jon Tarly,” he says slowly, sounding the name out on his tongue. He likes the way it sounds. “It’s a good, strong name. Sam would be proud to know he has a son carrying it.”

Gilly’s smile in return is brilliant as she looks to her sons. “Would you like to meet him? Properly this time?”

Jon swallows the lump in his throat and nods once. Both he and Gilly get to their feet as she calls the two over. She places little Jonny in front of her, her hands resting on his frail shoulders as she grins down at him.

“Jonny, I want you to meet someone special. This is your namesake and your father’s dearest friend, Jon Snow.”

Just as he did when meeting Ned and Jyanna, Jon slowly kneels and holds his hand out to the little boy who is staring at him in wonder.

“Hello Jonny, it’s very nice to meet you.”

The child just gapes at him as his brown eyes flutter in amazement. “You’re _the_ Jon Snow?”

Jon bites back a chuckle that threatens to escape from his mouth. He can’t remember anyone being so awed in his presence before. “Aye, I am.”

Suddenly, Jonny looks behind Jon as if expecting something else to be there. “Where’s Ghost?” the boy asks, clearly finding the direwolf a much more important character in the tale than Jon himself. Jon grins even as Gilly rebukes her child.

“It’s alright,” he tells her before turning his attention back to Jonny, “I don’t know where he is at the moment, he likes to go off on his own. But I’ll be sure to introduce you to him sometime.”

“Is it true he’s the size of a horse? I hear he’s bigger than the king’s direwolf,” Jonny tells him in a rush, tripping over his words in his haste to spit everything out.

“He’s pretty big,” Jon concurs, “and, yes, he’s even bigger than his brother Grey Wind, though not by much.”

Jonny nods, looking at Jon with childlike wonder. “And you know my papa?”

The question stops Jon short as he feels his heart slam against his ribs. He glances up at Gilly and sees the sadness gathering in her eyes. Looking back at Jonny, he finds himself saying, “I know your papa. He’s one of the bravest men I’ve ever met. If you would like, I’ll tell you all about him sometime.”

Jonny looks as if Jon just gave him the world on a silver platter as he begins babbling about all kinds of things. Jon remains with Gilly and her boys for a long while, getting to know Jonny and Little Sam before he finally takes his leave in the late afternoon.

He finds himself wandering aimlessly through Winterfell, not having an idea of where to go when he hears the voluminous banging of metal on metal coming from the smithy up ahead. Halting in place, Jon listens to the sharply repeated echoes as Robb’s words from the feast last night swirl through his head.

_That’s Robert Baratheon’s bastard._

Moving without thinking, Jon finds himself entering the smithy, nodding to Mikken in passing as he walks forward. He is immediately hit with a wave of heat and smoke that weighs heavily on his shoulders and has him tugging at the collar of his gambeson as he seeks out Arya’s mysterious admirer.

It doesn’t take him long to find Gendry Waters.

The man is situated in front of one of the blazing forges as he uses a tong to pull something from the fire that burns so hot it is a brilliant orange as he sets it down on the anvil; picking up a simple hammer and brings it down as sparks and embers go flying in every direction. The heat surrounding Gendry is immense but he hardly seems to notice it as he continues chipping away at his project. A thin sheen of sweat covers him and the sleeves of his coal-stained tunic are roughly rolled up to his elbows, showcasing his thick muscles as bulging veins wrap themselves up his forearms.

In Gendry, Jon can see flashes of the mighty warrior Robert Baratheon had once been lauded as; the man who had been called the Demon of the Trident by his enemies. He even looks like the king who had come to Winterfell so long ago, with his dark hair cropped short to his skull and bright blue eyes that stand out against the hazy darkness of the forge.

Tossing the hammer aside, Gendry tugs up whatever weapon he has been constructing with the tongs and dunks it into the nearest bucket of water. The metal loudly hisses like an enraged snake as steam rapidly rises up and engulfs Gendry before dissipating as the cool air of the North surges in from the outside.

It’s as Gendry raises the weapon from the water that he finally notices he has company. Eyes cutting to Jon, the blacksmith lets out an entertained snort as he carefully sets the cooling weapon down and wipes his sweaty palms on his trousers.

“I should have seen this coming,” he remarks quietly to himself with a wry twist of his lips.

Ignoring his enjoyment of the moment, Jon steps forward as he introduces himself, “I’m Jon Snow.”

Smile only growing; Gendry nods along like Jon’s identity is common knowledge. “Trust me; I _know_ exactly who you are. Arya speaks of you quite often and even if she didn’t, I’d recognize you because you look a fair bit like her.”

Unknowingly, Gendry has steered the conversation exactly where Jon was hoping it would good. Seizing upon the opportunity, Jon takes a step closer as he idly overlooks Gendry’s workstation, eyes passing over finely made swords, arrowheads, and daggers. The man has a gift that much is sure. It’s almost enough to have Jon liking him. Almost.

“I hear you’re quite close to my sister,” Jon remarks with a put upon self-restraint. He is nearly clawing with the need to ask this Gendry _‘what exactly are your intentions with Arya?’ _Somehow, he can’t find a way to gracefully drop that into their conversation. If only.

Another snort comes from Gendry as he loosely crosses his arms and watches Jon with his flashing blue eyes. “That’s one way of putting it,” he comments with a droll tone. “For a while, we were all each other had.”

He looks away then, his eyes clouding over with long ago memories. Jon can understand the sentiment. He has only heard a little of what Arya had endured during her travels through the Riverlands as she made her way to Robb at the Twins. He imagines the journey wasn’t any kinder to Gendry, who had been hunted by the Lannisters because of his Baratheon blood.

“She spoke of you often, you know,” Gendry says as Jon looks up in surprise to find the blacksmith staring at him with a steady gaze. “She told me of Winterfell and your family, but you were always her favorite subject, her favorite sibling. And Needle, you should have heard her talk about Needle. She could wax poetic about that sword.”

Gendry’s mouth quirks up into a fond grin as he shakes his sheared head. “Ever since I’ve come to Winterfell, I must have offered a dozen times or so to forge a new sword for her but she won’t have it. Needle’s her most prized possession. I imagine it’s because you were the one to give it to her.”

More affected than he wishes to show, Jon swallows uselessly as he turns back to Gendry’s station, planting his hands on his hips. “And this closeness to Arya? Does it extend to…_marriage?” _

Rolling his eyes, Gendry fires right back, “Look, I’ve been through the song and dance before and no offense, but you’re nowhere near as menacing as King Robb or as terrifyingly creative as Rickon.”

Against his will, Jon smiles thinking of just how threatening Rickon could be when given the opportunity. Unperturbed, Gendry continues, “To cut this shovel talk short, I have no intention of hurting Arya and if I’m ever boneheaded enough to do so, your sister is quite capable of hurting me back without blinking an eye.”

Quite true. Jon had learned that for himself when sparring against his sister.

Gendry lets out a sigh and his shoulders sag as he finishes his speech, “And in regards to marriage…I’d marry your sister tomorrow if she’d have me. She’s the one digging her heels in on _not_ getting married.”

It sounds just like Arya, which has Jon grinning lightly as he nods his head and turns fully to Gendry. “She’s always been a free spirit, that one.”

Gendry chuckles lowly in agreement. “That she is. But I wouldn’t have her any other way.”

Even without knowing the man before him, Jon can clearly see the genuine care Gendry holds for his sister. It’s all he’s ever wanted for Arya, who was so different from all the other daughters of lords who contented themselves with needlework and being the lady of their future husband’s keep. That was never Arya. She was unapologetically who she was and woe to anyone who tried to remake her in their image of a proper lady.

Gendry though, he seems to take Arya for who she is and loves her because of it, not despite it. Gendry will be faithful to Arya even if she never consents to marriage. Jon cannot find any fault in that.

“You’re not so bad, Gendry Waters,” he finds himself saying with an amicable air as the tension between them slips away and they are just two men getting to know one another.

“Neither are you, Jon Snow,” Gendry replies with an easy stance as he glances to the smoldering fire. “And truth be told, I’ve been wanting to meet you since Arya told me you were coming home.”

Skeptically, Jon’s brows knit together as he asks, “Why’s that?”

Gendry shrugs good-naturedly as he offhandedly says, “You’re about the only person I can think of that has any idea of what it’s like being the bastard of a great man.” His lips thin into a frown as he stares into the flames of the forge. “I didn’t even know I was Robert Baratheon’s son until long after he was dead.”

Briefly, a storm brews in Gendry’s eyes, turning them from a clear blue to a fierce, raging grey. Jon is reminded then of House Baratheon’s words: _Ours is the Fury._ The Baratheons, when alive, were powerful fighters in every sense of the word. Jon thinks Gendry is no exception to that.

“You want to swap tales of our upbringing?” Jon jokingly asks with a sardonic laugh as he tilts his head to the side consideringly. “Bastard to bastard?”

Gendry’s eyes clear as the storm is ridden out as he lightly says, “Our fathers trusted each other. Why shouldn’t we?”

It sounds easy enough when phrased like that.

“I saw your father once, here, at Winterfell.”

Jon looks outside the smithy into the main courtyard of Winterfell, the very same courtyard Robert Baratheon had ridden into ten years ago with his massive entourage from King’s Landing. The king, while fat and already halfway into his cups though it had only been midmorning, had still been an arresting sight in his burgundy leathers and billowing, black fur cloak. Even though Jon had been banned from attending the feast, he had still caught a glimpse of Robert Baratheon in his golden crown formed into antlers, glittering with citrine stones gilded into the metal.

“I met yours,” Gendry recounts with comradeship. “In my shop.”

Jon’s eyes dart over Gendry’s form as he good-heartedly quips, “You’re a lot leaner.”

“And you’re a lot shorter,” Gendry retorts with a playful grin that falls as the silence stretches on between the two. It’s finally broken when Jon lets out an amused laugh that wipes the nerves from Gendry’s pale face.

When he’s done chuckling, Jon finds himself saying quietly, “I grew up on stories about them.”

Ned Stark and Robert Baratheon. The two men who had led a rebellion against the Targaryens, a family who had ruled Westeros for 300 years, and somehow, gods know how, they had won.

“All I ever knew is that they fought together,” Gendry says, equally as quiet. “And won.”

“Aye,” Jon hollowly agrees, “for all the good it did them.”

He’s thought about it before. It’s one of the many _what-ifs _that he has entertained over the decade he’s been freezing at the Wall. What if they hadn’t won the war against the Targaryens? What if Robert Baratheon had never taken Cersei Lannister as his bride? What if he never rode north to Winterfell to make Ned Stark his Hand of the King, taking him away from his family and sealing his fate?

What then?

But such thoughts never produce worthwhile answers, just more maddening questions that give Jon a headache if he focuses too hard on them. Everything happened as it happened. It cannot be changed now. Ned Stark can’t come back from the dead, no matter how much Jon wishes it.

One can only focus on the present. And presently, Jon sees a friend in Gendry Waters. He imagines they are more alike than they are different. And Arya’s far too smart to have feelings for a good-for-nothing louse.

“Well, bastard to bastard,” he comments aloud as he holds up his hand in a peace offering, “I’m glad to have met you.”

Gendry looks from the hand to Jon before reaching out and firmly shaking it.

“You too.”

When they release their hands and let them fall to their sides, Jon glances around the shop as he asks, “I guess there’s only one thing I need to know then. You any good with a sword?”

Gendry blinks in confusion before slowly shaking his head. “No, but I’m pretty mean with a hammer.”

He nods to the corner and Jon follows his gaze to see a finely constructed war hammer propped up against a wall. Vines twist their way up the wooden shaft. His eyes are drawn to the black iron head and the yellow stag engraved into the metal.

The bastard inversion of the Baratheon sigil.

Gendry truly seems to be his father’s son. A far worthier contender to that title than the pretender Joffrey had ever been.

Impressed, Jon answers, “That’s good enough for me.”

He spends some more time in the smithy, admiring Gendry’s work as the blacksmith excitedly explains the process of transforming liquid iron and steel into the most exquisite weapons. He even lets Gendry examine Longclaw, the first Valyrian steel he has ever seen.

Now, he finds himself standing on the outer granite wall that wraps around the complex of Winterfell. It stands tall at 80 feet, though it is shorter than the inner wall that rises 100 feet in the air. Between the two walls, a wide moat meanders through as a safety measure against anyone foolish enough to try and attack Winterfell.

Jon is situated near the East Gate as he looks over the moors that surrounded Winterfell. A great hill rises up from the flat landscape and on the other side of that hill is Wintertown. Jon can just barely see the tops of chimneys as smoke uniformly rolls out of them, rippling grey clouds against the even greyer landscape as the sun is hidden from view as it often is in the North.

He is rudely shaken out of his musings when a sharp punch lands on his shoulders. Cursing, Jon rubs at his shoulder as he turns to the culprit.

Arya.

He really shouldn’t be surprised.

“I heard you had a conversation with Gendry,” she bluntly states with the ease of someone discussing the weather as she expectantly eyes him, waiting for him to answer.

“Hello to you too,” he grumbles as he rubs his aching shoulder. What is it with his younger siblings and punching him? They all used to be so sweet. “And, yes, Gendry and I spoke.”

Sighing, Arya sits on one of the crenels of the battlements and lets her short legs splay out. She has her back to the surrounding landscape of Winterfell and contents herself with looks at the various towers rising up from the keep.

“Please tell me you didn’t turn into a wolf of man and try to suss out Gendry’s intentions towards me. Robb and Rickon still have bruises from when they tried that unfortunately predictable tactic.”

Sheepishly shifting his weight from foot to foot, Jon rubs at the back of his neck as he reluctantly admits, “I may have been a bit…_protective,”_ he ignores Arya’s loud groan as he continues, “but I was soon made aware that there was no need for such methods.”

Arya only glares at him, her grey eyes narrowed into slits. He holds up his hands defensively.

“I’m your older brother, Arya. I was just looking out for you.”

Rolling her eyes, she retorts, “I can look after myself.” She pulls an apple from a pocket and absentmindedly wipes it against her jerkin before producing a knife from thin air as she starts cutting into the fruit.

“I know you can,” Jon acknowledges. “Trust me, I know.”

Undeterred, she keeps going. “You know, I could just slit your throat and dump you into the moat down below and no one would be the wiser.”

Jon looks down at the murky water of the moat far below them. “That seems a poetic end,” he deadpans. “I don’t die by climbing a 700-foot wall of ice but instead am dropped from an 80-foot stone wall. My, what a song they will sing.”

Snorting in amusement, Arya answers, “Yes, they could call the song ‘The Snow that Floats.’”

The comments sinks in before a chuckle is forced out of Jon’s chest, his eyes crinkling even as he shakes his head.

“That was terrible.”

“No, what will be terrible is if Rickon sings this song of your tragic demise,” she counters with a cheerful grin as she offers Jon a slice of apple. He takes it, biting down as his teeth crunch into the juicy fruit. “The boy can’t carry a tune to save his life.”

“Best get Ruger to do it then,” Jon replies as he finishes off the slice. Companionable silence falls between the siblings as they overlook Winterfell together. It is only broken when Arya nudges his shoulder – the one she didn’t punch, that is.

"It’s good to be home, isn’t it?” she asks with a gratified smile. As if the image of her and Jon standing together on the walls of Winterfell is a dream come true. And it is, in many ways. This is a dream Jon’s envisioned far too many times to count in the years he has been away. It is something he never thought he’d have again.

And yet…

It is everything he wanted and he doesn’t know what to do with it. Not when he still has so many questions about why he is home in the first place. He has no place in Winterfell. He doesn’t even know where to begin in the hope of finding one. Being the bastard brother of the king isn’t a position he knows how to inhabit. It’s as foreign to him as the nice clothes he finds himself wearing.

“It’s…something,” he admits with a pained grimace. Luckily for him, Arya doesn’t comment on his hesitation but only hands him another apple slice. They stand together, shoulder to shoulder, as they watch Winterfell from high above.

And, just for a bit, Jon feels at peace in the home that had once been his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, hello to everyone who has stuck around despite how massively long it took me to update this bad boy. You know it's been too long when you get bumped from the first page of Jon/Robb. I am so sorry for the lengthy delay! I went on vacation in early November, and once getting back to work my brain wouldn't get out of vacation-mode, and then Thanksgiving came, and everything went sideways in regards to getting out this chapter. Initially, this chapter was meant to be longer but I'm not even done with it yet and we're already over 20,000 words and I didn't want to make you guys wait any longer than necessary for an update, so I have split it into two parts. And I promise going forward that gaps in updates won't be nearly as long as this one was. So, again, thank you for your patience. I really do appreciate all of you so much. 
> 
> Haha, so Jon is hanging out with all the children in Winterfell this chapter. Don't worry, we'll get some Jon-Ned goodness next chapter. I've always headcanon Jon as being good with small children, so it's fun to showcase that in the story. Jyanna totally has him wrapped around her little finger. I liked getting to show Jon trying to find his footing in Winterfell. It both feels the same as how it did as a boy and yet is entirely different all at the same time and that has Jon's head spinning as he tries to find his place. And no Robb, but he will definitely be back next chapter. Will he and Jon finally sit down and talk out their feelings? Who knows! 
> 
> I played around with Little Sam's age. He aged so slowly on the show and stayed a baby so long it was hard to accurately guess his age, but I figured eight was a good enough estimate. Particularly for the timeline of this story. 
> 
> Thank you again so very much to everyone who has commented, subscribed, left a kudos, or bookmarked this story. You guys are all rock stars and it gives me a ton of motivation to keep on chugging along. I've gotten the whole story firmly planned out, so really now, it's just a race to the end. Hopefully, you keep enjoying the journey as it unfolds. Let me know what you think of this chapter!


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